Whumptober 2017
by Aggie2011
Summary: 31 oneshots based on the Whumptober prompt list on tumblr. All around 1000 words give or take a few hundred. If you know me, you know these will all be about Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff with a likely sprinkling in of Phil Coulson.
1. On Their Knees

_This is the first of 31 one shots based on the Whumptober prompt list as part of Inktober over on tumblr. Anyway, these will all be around 1000 words give or take a few hundred. I have some catching up to do so expect to see a couple of these a day through the end of the month. They're unbeta'd and just for fun so forgive any mistakes and just enjoy the whump :) I'm doing this for two fandoms so be patient please :)_

 _PS - I don't own the Avengers...do I still even need to say that?_

 _Oh and the prompt for this one was "On their knees"_

* * *

Natasha glared at the gun pointed at her forehead. She clenched her jaw and wiped at the blood dripping from her mouth and nose.

"Haven't you ever heard it's rude to hit a girl?" she snarked as hands pushed her forward, further into the courtyard and away from the view of the party inside.

"I get the feeling you're not like most girls," her target shot back. "Put your hands up and get on the ground, bitch."

"You kiss your mother with that mouth," she taunted. But she obediently sank to her knees, hands slightly raised. Her black silk dress pooled around her on the ground. "You gonna shoot me?" she asked coyly. "Right here, right now?" she purred.

"You thought you could fool me? I knew what you were from the moment you walked into my house," the man snarled. "You thought I wouldn't notice you trying to steal my key? Did you really think I was that stupid?"

"Well I had hoped you were," she admitted with a smirk and a quirk of her brow.

The man glowered, eyes darkening with fury. He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.

"But I hadn't counted on it," she went on, voice pitched in false sweetness. "What I _had_ counted on was you noticing me. I counted on you trying to feel me up; and on you maybe _not_ being as stupid as you seemed on paper."

Now the man was frowning.

"Because if you were even a little smarter than we thought, then you'd catch me trying to steal your key. And you would bring me out here, away from the party, with all your little henchmen along to watch your show of power."

Now all the men were glancing around at each other, looking confused.

"You'd be so proud of yourself for figuring it all out. And, me? I'd let you have your moment of glory. Because now I'll have no one left to contend with inside when I go for your files."

"But you didn't get my key," the man pointed out with a scowl, patting the pocket the key was in as if to be sure it was still there.

Natasha shrugged dismissively.

"Not yet. But the night isn't over."

"There are many of us and you're captured. _I_ have a gun, not you!" The man laughed, but there was a nervous undercurrent to it as he waved his gun demonstratively.

Natasha let her lips curl into a smirk.

She didn't flinch as the two men holding her in place dropped, one right after the other, like puppets with their strings cut. She calmly stood, reaching for the knife hidden in a sheath on her thigh as two more dropped in quick succession. She stepped out of the way of the spray as her target's gun hand suddenly exploded in blood and his gun fell harmlessly into her waiting hand. Then she lashed out, knife neatly puncturing his jugular. She released the knife, disassembled the gun and dropped the pieces all while he gurgled and stumbled back. She pursued and fished the key out of his pocket as he finally collapsed. She turned her back on him and smirked.

The courtyard behind her was a field of bodies, each one systematically gunned down with a precise headshot right between the eyes. Ever the perfectionist, her Hawk. The idiot had probably timed himself.

Her smirk widened and she glanced over her shoulder, winking into the darkness behind her. She couldn't, of course, see any sort of response. She didn't know exactly where he was, just that he was other there. Watching over her, like always.

"I brought a bigger gun," she commented to the corpse at her feet.

Then she coolly made her way back into the house to complete their mission so they could go home.

* * *

 _not a whole lot of whump in this one. Just our favorite assassins being badass. But there was a little whump so it counts. More to come!_


	2. Bag Over Head

_The prompt for this one was "Bag over head"_

* * *

Clint grunted around the gag jammed between his teeth as he was shoved down onto something hard and metal. The canvas bag duct taped around his head prevented him from seeing exactly what was going on around him, but his other senses were working overtime to fill in the blanks.

He was now in the bed of a truck. He could feel the wheel well against his back and the vibration of the engine through the truck frame. His nose picked up the scent of Old Spice aftershave and cigarette smoke. He'd seen a guy with a cigarette between his lips before the bag had gone over his head. But he didn't remember smelling Old Spice until now. He was pretty sure that meant there were two men in the bed of the truck with him.

He held himself as still as possible, focusing now on the feel of the terrain underneath the truck tires. There was a crunching sound and it felt like the ground was giving way a bit beneath the weight of the truck.

A gravel road.

Three minutes later the road smoothed out as they hit the pavement of a main road.

Clint tilted his head, visualizing a map of the area to try and determine which way they were going.

North. He was pretty sure it was north.

Two and a half minutes and they turned east.

He heard more cars now and felt a boot press into his shoulder, keeping him pressed against the rusty metal of the truck bed.

The world beyond the bag brightened for a moment as a car passed them with its high beams on. Clint briefly wondered how the situation would have developed if he'd managed to get himself spotted. He had a sudden vision of him and everyone else dying in a fiery crash because he'd distracted the driver of the other car and caused him to run them off the road.

He shook his head.

New plan.

He couldn't try to flag down a passing vehicle. He'd just get out of this one. Somehow.

A new scent hit his nose.

Water…salt water.

They _had_ been near the coast. Mabye…

He suddenly knew exactly where he was. If he was right, the road was about to curve right up to the edge of a small cliff that dropped down straight into the bay. If he timed it right, he could use the momentum of the truck's turn to launch himself over the cliff and down into the water.

"This is such a bad idea," he muttered around the gag.

But considering they'd promised to torture and then execute him, he'd rather take his chances with the cliffside.

He only had a few moments to prepare and he used them to lash out at the two men in the truck bed with him. He crippled Old Spice by aiming a sharp kick somewhere near his knee. The answering scream of pain suggested he'd hit his target. He felt the vibration through the truck bed as the man dropped. Clint reached out with bound hands and found purchase in the mans' shirt. He pulled him close and slammed his forehead into the other man's face. His attack was a little low and he ended up smashing his forehead into the man's nose and splattering blood everywhere.

The cigarette man caught him in the ribs with a kick, but Clint just grinned. Cigarette man had just made everything a little easier by giving away his position. Clint kicked out the man's feet and then slammed both feet into his chest as he fell, sending him tumbling over the tailgate and into the street.

Clint stood, backed to one edge of the truck bed and waited.

He felt the turn start to build in the drag of the truck. Then he ran for the other side of the bed and just as the truck swung into the turn, Clint launched himself into the air.

There were several terrifying moments while he was in free fall that he realized he hadn't considered if there would be rocks to greet him in the water. He made himself as straight as he could and sliced into the water like a spear.

His first instinct while underwater with a bag still taped to his head was to panic.

But instead, he dug into his boot for one of his hidden knives and worked blindly to cut the ropes from his wrists. There were several stings of the blade against his skin, but soon he was free. He clawed at the water, propelling himself upward with his arms.

When he broke the surface, he immediately started pulling at the bag, tearing at the tape until it freed him and he was able to rip the bag off.

He tossed it as far away as he could and then rested back, letting himself float for a moment.

A glance around showed an area of water peppered with large boulders and rocks.

Clint blinked, looking up at the edge of the cliff. It was considerably higher than he expected. He dropped his head back and laughed in relieved disbelief.

"Holy shit… Can't tell Phil about this one. Nope. Nope, nope, _nope_. He'd kill me."

* * *

 _I think we all know Phil would have had a coronary if he'd witnessed that. One of those 'if you survive this, i'll kill you' moments lol_


	3. Jail Cell

_the prompt for this one was "Jail Cell"_

* * *

Clint had his hands so tightly wrapped around the bars of his cell that they ached.

"I'm going to kill you," he promised lowly, voice hard and eyes lethal.

Natasha shot him a quelling glare from where she was held firmly between two burly men. She clearly didn't want him drawing attention to himself. But he had to try. She was trying to hide it, but Clint could see her legs trembling as they fought to support her weight. Her hands were clenched tightly at her sides and her mouth set in a hard line.

"Are you?" their target mocked him, lightly tapping his cane against his palm. The same cane he'd used to beat Natasha only a moment ago. Lightning fast, the man he struck out, catching Clint's fingers before he could withdraw them to safety.

Clint didn't flinch although he was _pretty_ sure he had at least one broken finger now. He just clenched his jaw and tightened his hold on the bars. He wondered if it was possible to _will_ someone to death.

Their captor arched a brow at what his sick mind likely perceived as a challenge and drifted closer. But he stayed _just_ beyond Clint's reach.

"How do you plan to accomplish that?" the man asked with a taunting chuckle. "You're in there and I'm out here…with _her_."

At their captor's signal, one of the burly men slammed a fist into Natasha's abdomen and then another into her face.

Clint swore, withdrawing his hands only to slam them, open palmed, against the bars.

He didn't make his threat again, instead let his glare do the speaking for him.

The man drifted closer, a victorious smile on his face. He tapped the cane against his palm again.

"You should not have come here," he scolded. "You should have not tried to steal from me."

Clint tilted his head a little, feigning innocent confusion.

"Who said we were here to _steal_ from you?" he asked casually. Then he dove forward, reaching through the bars and wrapping his hand around the man's throat. "We're here to _kill_ you."

Natasha took that as an opportunity and struck out at the two men holding her while they were distracted. Clint knew she could handle them so he focused on the man in his grasp.

"You got sloppy," Clint scolded. "When you stayed out of reach before, I thought it was on purpose…but no, you really _are_ that stupid."

The man tried to hit him with the cane, but Clint reached through with his other hand and snatched it from him.

"Man, you really had no idea who you were dealing with did you?" Clint taunted. "If I had the time, I'd beat you to death with this damn thing. But as it stands, we've got a plane to catch."

He pulled the man sharply forward, slamming his face against the bars. While he was still stunned, Clint turned him, wrapping his arm around the man's neck and pulling him back against the bars.

"SHIELD sends their regards," Clint hissed before smoothly and cleanly breaking his neck.

He let the body drop and looked up as Natasha moved stiffly towards him, keys dangling from her hand.

"You good?" he asked before he could stop himself.

She grinned around bloody lips and jangled the keys demonstratively.

"I'm saving your ass, aren't I?" she teased.

"My very own knight in shining armor," he agreed. He moved toward the door as she unlocked it and stepped through as soon as she pulled it open. His hand went to palm her neck, eyes assessing the damage he could see.

"I'm good," she promised softly.

Jaw ticking with tension, Clint nodded and reluctantly took her word for it.

"Exfil in 40. We need to move," he reminded.

But neither of them budged.

Finally, he sighed out his tension and dropped his forehead to rest against hers.

"Sometimes I hate this job," he muttered.

"Yeah… _me_ too," she agreed with a chuckle, motioning demonstratively at the bruises forming on her face.

"Let's take a vacation," he decided, turning to hook an arm over her shoulders and steering them both toward the door. If his objective was to make sure she had support to walk, well he wasn't going to mention it.

"Oh yeah? Where?" she wondered as they stepped over bodies to get to the exit.

"Somewhere sunny and cheerful."

"You know somewhere were there _isn't_ a price on one of our heads?" she asked with a chuckle.

"Hmmm…somewhere dark and cold then."

* * *

 _Look for one, possible two more of these later today!_


	4. Noose

_the prompt for this one was "Noose" and this one is also kind of an old west AU for some reason? lol_

* * *

Clint squinted into the hot, Texas sun as it beat down on the dusty street that served as the main road through town. The gallows were built smack in the center of everything, so all could see the spectacle, gruesome as it was.

"Come and see as the outlaw gunslinger, Clint Barton, meets justice once and for all!" the town mayor shouted, beckoning the townspeople closer.

Clint looked up, eyeing the length of rope that stretched out above him.

It wasn't how he pictured it – meeting his end. He had always known he would die young, but he'd expected it to be at the wrong end of a bullet.

Live by the sword, die by the sword and all that.

He sighed and looked back out over the town, only he looked over all the people, out to the dusty horizon, wishing he'd had a chance to say goodbye to the two people he considered closer than family.

* * *

Natasha exchanged a nod with Phil and left the cover of the shadows to weave into the crowd while Phil headed stealthily towards the stables. She kept her face downturned, but her eyes scanned the people through her lashes as she moved. Slowly, carefully, she slid the knives she kept hidden in her sleeves down into her hands.

She risked a glance up at Clint. He was staring stoically off into the distance and didn't seem to notice her. She paused and stared harder at him, _willing_ him to sense her. He had no way of knowing she and Phil were here. Last he would have known, they were two towns away and too far to help him. But they had decided to travel to their meet up point early. When Clint hadn't been there early like planned, they'd gotten worried.

Clint suddenly blinked, head tilting. Then his eyes slid unerringly to meet hers.

She offered a slight grin and a wink. His eyebrow crept upward slightly before his gaze shifted away, scanning the crowd. When he didn't see Phil, his gaze swung back to her but she had no way to tell him Phil was sorting out their getaway.

Natasha continued to slowly make her way closer to the gallows, keeping her knives tucked against her palm and mostly out of sight.

Now it was just time to wait for the opportune moment.

She watched warily as the sheriff ambled across the platform to stand next to Clint. Clint glanced at the sheriff, then at her, then back at the sheriff.

He was about to make a move.

When Clint struck out, Natasha was already moving. She strode towards the deputy guarding the steps and spun the knives in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Clint kick the sheriff in the leg then knee him in the face as fell. She drove one of her knives into the deputy's throat as Clint twisted, using the hands bound behind his back to snatch the sheriff's gun out of its holster.

He fired it from behind his back, taking down the two deputies rushing towards him from the left while she took out another one that was trying to block her progress up the stairs.

But there was one more person on the platform.

The mayor.

The crooked, liar of a mayor that had framed Clint for murder. He pulled the lever and the floor dropped out from under Clint before she could get to him.

Natasha threw of her knives, hitting the mayor in the heart. She started towards Clint but had to duck away behind a post when gunfire erupted around her. Blowing errant wisps of hair out of her face, Natasha peeked around the post.

There were several men wielding guns surrounding the platform.

"Come on, Phil," she muttered, glancing worriedly at Clint. She lifted her skirt, sliding another knife out of its hidden sheath. She licked her lips and weighed the blade in her hand. Then she stepped out from behind the post and threw it. A bullet ripped into her shoulder, but the knife flew true, slicing neatly through the rope.

Clint dropped out of sight and Natasha dove for the same hole in the platform all but falling through it after him. She landed on top of his sprawled form with a grunt.

"Graceful," he croaked with a groan.

"Shut up," she hissed, climbing off him and retrieving the knife she knew he hid in his boot. She cut his hands free and then helped him loosen the rope around his neck. He noticed the blood on her shoulder but she glared him into silence on the matter. "There's no time," she reminded.

"Where's Phil?" he asked, voice rasping and raw.

The thunder of horse hooves drew their attention to the street – which had cleared of townspeople when the shooting started.

"There," Natasha tilted her head towards the three approaching horses. They watched while Phil expertly gunned down the men who'd been shooting at them.

"As rescues go?" Clint coughed, rubbing at his throat as they waited for Phil to get closer. "Could have been timed better."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Really?" she glared at him. "I just saved your life."

"Yeah, _barely_."

"Next time I'll just let you hang then."

"No, you won't, you like me too much."

"Not at the moment, I don't."

"You're just cranky because you got shot."

"Yeah, saving _you_."

"Hey!" they both fell silent, peeking out from under the platform to see Phil arching a brow at them in irritation. "If you two are done, maybe we can get on with the 'escape' part of the plan?"

"So pushy," Clint muttered as he ducked out from under the platform.

"He had the _easy_ part of the plan. No one shot at _him_ ," Natasha grumbled as she followed and let Clint help her up onto a horse so she didn't have to battle her skirt.

"No one tried to hang him either," Clint added.

Phil glanced towards the heavens in exasperation and reminded himself that he didn't _really_ want to kill the guy he'd just gone to so much trouble to save.

* * *

 _Gonna try for one more tonight. We'll see. Thanks for stopping in!_


	5. Explosion

_the prompt for this one was "Explosion"_

* * *

"Don't move!" Clint barked, bow drawn.

Natasha glared down the sights of her two hand guns at the man standing opposite them.

The man froze, a small black device clenched in his hand. Natasha flicked her gaze down to the vest of C-4 the man was wearing. It wasn't a lot of C-4, but it was enough.

"Nice fashion statement," Clint snarked.

"Come any closer and I'll kill us all."

"So you're not just a drug-smuggler, you're a _suicidal_ drug smuggler?" Clint wondered, drifting a step closer to her.

The man responded by pressing down the button on the top of the device, a maniacal grin on his face.

Clint jerked back a pace, half stepping in front of her, bow drawn up further as if it would protect them should the vest _actually_ explode.

But it didn't.

Natasha let out a slow breath and shifted her grip on her guns.

"Deadman's switch," the man explained – as if it wasn't obvious now that they weren't all dead. "You kill me, we all die. So you're going to let me walk out of here."

"What do you think, Nat? Should we let him go?" Clint asked. She couldn't see his face, but she could _hear_ the sarcastic smirk in his voice.

"We could," she replied with a shrug. "We let him blow himself up and there'll be paperwork."

Clint sighed dramatically.

"I hate paperwork."

"You say that like you _do_ any of it."

"Hey," he dropped his bow and turned so he could see her. "I do my share."

Natasha gave him a doubtful look.

Clint scoffed in offense and swung back to look at the man with the bomb vest.

"Don't listen to her. When you explode, I'll _totally_ do my share of the paperwork."

The man blinked at them in horrified, confused shock.

"You okay, man?" Clint asked with feigned concern.

"I think we broke him," Natasha commented, tilting her head a bit to regard their target.

"You didn't… I'm… What's _wrong_ with you two?" the man snapped.

"What?" Clint shrugged in confusion.

The man started gesturing wildly with both hands.

"You two are completely unprofessional! What kind of agents are you?!"

Clint put a hand over his heart.

"I'm _offended_."

"He's not wrong," Natasha added immediately. When Clint looked at her she shrugged. "You _are_ unprofessional."

"Now that's just mean spirited."

"HEY!"

They swung their attention back to the man with the bomb.

"Hi! Guy with bomb here-" the man's sweat slicked hand slipped on the device, his thumb sliding off the switch. A high-pitched beeping filled the air as the mans' eyes went comically wide.

"Oh shit," Clint blurted and then he turned, wrapped an arm around her waist and dove for the window. She had the presence of mind to shoot out the glass just before he propelled them through it. The blast blew out the rest of the windows, but they were already falling, mercifully only from the second floor.

Clint locked her against his chest, shoved her face into his neck and twisted them in midair so that he was below her.

She only had time to growl in frustration at his overprotectiveness before they landed – right on the hood of a car. They rolled with the impact and Natasha hit the ground first, Clint landing heavily on top of her before he rolled off, limbs limp and loose as they only ever were with unconsciousness.

"Clint!" she snapped, wrapping her hands in his t-shirt and using the grip to haul herself half onto his chest. Her vision swam dizzyingly and she belatedly felt the warm wetness of blood sliding down the back of her neck. She blinked several times, trying to clear things up, but it only made it worse.

She fumbled for her phone, hitting the speed-dial out of muscle memory more than anything.

" _This is Coulson."_

"Phil…" she mumbled blearily, hardly noticing when she drooped down to rest her head on Clint's chest.

" _Natasha? What happened? Where are you?"_

"Explosion…" she explained simply.

Phil might have said more after that, but it was lost on her. Hands still tangled in Clint's t-shirt, she couldn't stop her eyes from sliding closed and the world faded away.

* * *

She woke to white walls.

"Hospital," Phil supplied before her mind could jump into overdrive. "Couldn't be helped."

She drew in a breath and carefully pushed herself up onto her elbows.

"Where's…"

"On your right," Phil answered before she could even finish asking.

She looked over and breathed out a sigh of relief.

Clint was sitting up in bed wolfing down chocolate pudding. He waved at her with his spoon.

"Apparently," he licked excess pudding off the spoon, "I've got a harder head than you."

Natasha sat up fully and waved a hand at him. He obligingly tossed her an unopened cup of pudding.

"No surprise there," she replied with a smirk.

Clint gaped dramatically at her and then shook his head in mock disappointment.

"And after I shared my pudding."

"You _both_ have concussions," Phil pointed out. "And you aren't getting out of here until you're both cleared."

Clint scowled and Natasha barely resisted doing the same.

"To help you pass the time." Phil plopped a tablet down in front of each of them. "You can get a jumpstart on your reports. An exploding body?" he shook his head in sympathy. "That's a lot of paperwork."

* * *

 _I'm enjoying writing these two a little more lightheartedly than I usually do. Hope you're enjoying it as well! More tomorrow! Time got away from me today and this is all I got done!_


	6. Broken Bone

_the prompt for this one was "Broken bone"_

* * *

"Is it broken?" Clint asked with wide eyes. He crouched next to Phil where the older agent was sprawled on the ground.

Phil grimaced and assessed the odd angle his ankle was resting in.

"I think that's a safe assessment," he ground out.

"Shit," Clint muttered, leaning to get a closer look at the injury.

Phil tried to remind himself that there was no way Clint's _breathing_ was causing fresh pain to the broken joint. He gripped his leg in a vain attempt to alleviate the discomfort.

He was confused when Clint dug his phone out of his pants.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

Clint blinked at him in surprise.

"I'm calling Wilson."

"Why?"

Now Clint was looking at him like he was speaking a different language.

"Because your ankle is broken," he replied very slowly, as if worried Phil might not keep up otherwise.

"Don't call him out here and make a scene. I'll walk to the infirmary."

"On a broken ankle?" Clint asked flatly.

"You're going to be helping me," Phil insisted.

"Am I?"

"Yes," Phil snapped. He reached out, motioning for Clint to help him up.

But the archer just stared at him.

"Are you _crazy_?" he finally asked, sounding unreasonably exasperated.

"I don't want Dan coming out here with a wheel chair and making a scene."

"Phil, I hate to break it to you…but you fell off the parkour course in broad daylight. The scene's already been made."

"Nobody knows I broke anything. If you help me walk inside, nobody will be the wiser."

"Phil, you're being unreasonable. I know because that's what you always tell _me_ when I insist on stupid shit like that when I'm hurt."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

"No! I'm calling Wilson." He focused back on his phone again.

"Fine, I'll do it myself." Phil attempted to push himself up, but only succeeded in flailing a little.

"Oh my God, what is _wrong_ with you? _Fine,_ I'll help!"

Clint hauled him upright and pulled Phil's arm over his shoulder. Then he helped Phil hobble back towards the building.

"Yeah…cuz this is drawing _sooo_ much less attention than letting Dan come to you," Clint muttered under his breath.

After that they were both silent save for Phil's grunts and groans of pain as they moved. When the finally made it to the infirmary, Clint deposited him in a wheel chair. Then he stood back with his hands on his hips.

"Next time I'm being obstinate about an injury and you start lecturing me, I'm going to remind you of this moment," the archer warned.

"Next time you're being obstinate about an injury, remember how you feel right now. And then maybe don't be so obstinate," Phil shot back.

Clint stared at him. Then he huffed and crossed his arms, looking scandalized.

" _Phil_ , did you just trick me into helping you so that you could _lecture me?_ "

"No. I'm not lecturing you. I just wanted you to experience how it feels to be on the other side of this type of situation."

Clint's mouth gaped in shock.

"Are. You. Shitting. Me." Clint looked positively horrified. "Did you _plan_ falling off the parkour course too? What about breaking your ankle? Did you plan _that?_ IS YOUR ANKLE EVEN BROKEN?"

"Clint calm down. Of course I didn't plan it. But I saw an opportunity for a teachable moment and I took it."

"A teachable…it was emotional manipulation is what it was," Clint groused. He plopped down in another empty wheelchair and promptly leaned it back to balance on the two main wheels.

"Really?" Phil challenged dryly. "You feel emotionally manipulated?"

"Yep. I'm traumatized. I may block out this whole afternoon to protect myself. So you broke your ankle for nothing."

"What happened to you two?" Dan Wilson demanded as he appeared out of his office.

"I'm fine. Phil broke his ankle to teach me a lesson."

"That's not…I didn't _plan_ the fall, Clint."

"You fell? Off what?" Dan asked as he came closer and crouched to examine the broken ankle.

"The parkour course," Clint answered. "I was going to just call you out there but Phil would rather make a point than a scene."

"Clint!" Phil warned in exasperation.

Dan shook his head in confusion.

"What is he complaining about?" he asked Phil.

"When I fell and was injured, I saw an opportunity to let Clint experience how it feels to be on the other side of a person being stupid about an injury."

"An opportunity for emotional manipulation, you mean," Clint countered.

Dan rolled his eyes.

"Barton, _beat it_."

"Fine." Clint stood. He pointed a finger at Phil. "I won't forget this." Then he stalked out of the infirmary.

"Why do I get the feeling that was more of a threat than him actually taking away the lesson I hoped to teach here?"

"Because he's Barton," Dan responded with a smirk, "and it's never the easy way with him."

* * *

 _Hey look at that, I whumped Phil this time. Today was crazy so this is all I have for you, but more tomorrow!_


	7. Guilt

_The prompt for this one was "Guilt"_

* * *

Clint sighted through the scope of his rifle, scowling when his eyes refused to focus properly.

" _Hawkeye, what's your status?"_ Phil's voice rang out over the comm.

"In position," he replied. He shook his head slightly, but it did nothing to help his current situation.

" _Did you run into any trouble?"_ Phil asked.

"A couple of hostiles were waiting up here," Clint replied. "I handled it."

He could _feel_ Phil's frown of concern.

" _What's your status?"_ Phil asked again, but this time it was clear he was asking about Clint's health.

"Possible concussion," he admitted grudgingly, and only because Natasha's life could depend on how he was able to perform his part in all of this.

" _Vision?"_ Phil asked sharply.

"Currently doubled and blurred."

" _Shit. I'm coming to you."_

"Copy that."

While he waited, Clint did his best to keep an eye on Natasha despite his current handicap. He frowned when he saw someone start purposefully moving through the crowd towards the ambassador they were here to protect.

"Widow, I'm clocking a hostile on your three, moving fast."

" _Got him."_

He watched a blur he assumed was her start on a course to intercept. He frowned when he saw someone else start moving through the crowd from the opposite side.

"I've got another hos-" he was cut off when gunfire suddenly erupted from the square.

People started running all directions and Clint cursed.

"Damnit! I can't track them."

" _I'm headed back to the ambassador,"_ Natasha announced sharply.

There was more gunfire and more people ran. When the crowd thinned, Clint sighted through his scope and cursed again.

Natasha and a young girl were both being held at gunpoint. Natasha couldn't make a move without risking the girl.

" _Take the shot,_ " she instructed lowly.

"My vision's screwed. I'm seeing double," he told her.

She was silent for a moment.

" _Take the shot,"_ she said again, but what Clint heard was 'I trust you.'

"Overwatch, what's your status?"

" _I'm too far, kid. You make the call."_

"Shit, shit, SHIT!" Clint hissed, shifting his aim slightly. He watched the hostiles grow more agitated and jammed their guns harder against Natasha and the little girls' heads.

" _Hawk,"_ Natasha hissed.

Clint lined up his shot.

"God damnit." He pulled the trigger.

Natasha fell.

Even though his heart stuttered to a stop in his chest, Clint shifted his aim and fired again. A hostile dropped. Natasha moved and drew on of her hidden guns, killing the second hostile. Then she collapsed back onto the pavement, holding her shoulder.

Clint pushed back from his rifle and gaped at it in horror.

"Hostile's are down. Widow's been hit," he reported into the comm.

" _Copy that. I'll go to her. You head to the RV."_

Clint nodded, even though Phil couldn't see him and sat up. He slowly packed his rifle away into its case and then retreated from the rooftop.

* * *

Natasha woke up slowly, feeling the lethargic effects of painkillers throughout her body.

She rolled her head, searching for the presence she felt at her side.

Clint was sitting folded over, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands.

"Hey," she greeted softly.

Even over the sound of the jet's engines, he somehow heard her because his head jerked up.

"Hey," he offered back. "How are you feeling?"

"Nothing but good," she answered with a grin, holding up her IV hand.

He didn't even grin in response.

"Hey," she called in concern. "What's wrong?"

He looked at her like she was crazy, or stupid, or both.

"I _shot_ you."

She grinned a little.

"Well you did kind of owe me one."

He scowled, looking decidedly unamused, and then dropped his head again, digging his hands into his hair.

"Clint, come on," she prodded. "You did what you had to do. The situation was seconds away from escalating. They would have killed that girl _and_ me."

"I _missed_ ," he reminded lowly. "And I _shot you_."

"Everybody misses sometimes," she countered.

"Not me," he argued, raising his head again. " _I_ don't miss."

"Clint…"

"If I miss, then I'm just another guy with a bow and arrow…or a gun in this case." He gestured at the bandages on her shoulder. He shook his head in self-recrimination. "I'm so sorry."

"Clint, I _told_ you to take the shot."

"That doesn't make it any better," he shot back.

Natasha sighed in annoyance.

"Do you ever hit the bullseye when you're trying out a new gun for the first time?" she asked.

He frowned in confusion.

"What?"

"Just answer the damn question."

"I guess not. I usually have to get a read on how the gun fires first."

"Exactly."

"But it was _my_ rifle. The one I fire all the time."

"Do you fire it with a fresh concussion all the time?" she challenged.

He frowned.

"Well…no."

"So you might as well have been firing it for the _first_ time," she pointed out. "You missed the first shot – fine. Clint, you still nailed the son of a bitch with the second one, even _with_ a concussion."

He still didn't look convinced.

"I still shot you."

"So? I shot _you_ the night we met. Do you still hold that against me?"

Clint's brow quirked, no doubt thinking of all the times he'd teased her about it.

"Do you _really_?" she challenged.

He sobered with a sigh.

"No," he admitted.

"Then why would I ever hold _this_ against _you_?"

He let out a slow breath and some of the tension leaked out of his shoulders.

"I guess you make a good point."

"Of course I do."

She held out a hand and waited patiently for him to reach out and take it. She squeezed his fingers gently.

"It'll take a lot more than a bullet to get rid of me," she promised.

His lips quirked and he let her pull him out of the chair to the edge of the cot she was stretched out on. He leaned over her, bracing a hand on the opposite side of the cot.

"You're it for me, you know that right?" he asked quietly, blue-gray eyes staring intently into her own.

"Yeah, I know," she assured.

He grinned a little then. And when he leaned down to kiss her, she did her best to let him know without words that he was it for her too.

* * *

 _Sorry this one is coming to you so late! Apparently life with a 3yr old and a 5 month old is hectic, who knew?! It seems I can only ever get one of these done on weekdays, but hopefully I can make up some ground on the weekend. Love you guys! More tomorrow!_


	8. Scar

_The prompt for this one was "Scar"_

* * *

Phil narrowed his eyes, watching Clint from across the gym. That was the third time in an hour that Clint had rubbed at the old scar hidden under his t-shirt – a scar put there by his own brother over a decade ago.

Clint hadn't mentioned having any dreams about that night. But then, he wouldn't. Clint didn't talk about his brother, not even to Phil. Clint could be having nightmares about that betrayal every night and Phil would never know.

He watched Clint pause in his pounding on the old, worn punching bag he'd chosen to work out with. He took a moment to stretch a little, gaze pinned on the rain pouring down in torrents beyond the floor to ceiling windows that made up one wall of the training gym.

As Phil watched, he rubbed at the scar _again_.

When he attacked the punching bag next, it was with a renewed tenacity.

Phil decided he'd better try to figure out what was going on and whether it was going to be a problem. He made his way across the gym, lifting his chin a little in greeting when Clint noticed his approach.

"You've been working this bag for a couple hours now, kid. Maybe time for a break."

Clint rolled his neck and then shook his head.

"Nah, I've still got some juice left."

He jabbed out at the bag and Phil stepped forward, catching it.

Clint rolled his eyes, letting out a sharp, annoyed breath.

"Can I help you?" he asked sarcastically.

"If you were going to hit this thing for hours you should have put on gloves, not just tape." Phil nodded at the faint hint pink showing through the white tape wrapped around Clint's hands. "Take a break."

It wasn't a request now. It was an order.

Still Clint stared stubbornly at him.

"What if I don't want a break?" he asked.

Phil arched a brow.

"You wanna tell me what's bothering you?" he prodded.

Clint gave him a blank look.

"No," he denied simply.

Now it was Phil who huffed in frustration.

"So there _is_ something bothering you?" he pressed.

Clint just stared at him. Phil narrowed his eyes. Time to push harder.

"You keep rubbing the scar on your shoulder," Phil pointed out. "And watching the rain."

The muscle at the base of Clint's jaw ticked.

"I put those two things together and I only end up in one place."

Clint stayed stubbornly stoic for a moment before clenching his jaw and cutting his eyes away. A confession, if Phil was ever gonna get one.

"Was it a dream?" he asked carefully.

Still looking away, out at the rain again, Clint scoffed and shook his head.

"I don't want to talk about this."

Phil scrubbed a hand up into his hair.

"What can I do?"

"Make it stop raining."

It was said sarcastically, with a sour twist of his lips. But Phil didn't make light of the request. He knew how much Clint hated the rain. He knew what memories the rain brought.

"Would that I could, kid," he replied sincerely.

Clint looked back at him then, something in his expression softening in the face of Phil's genuine concern and care.

"I'll settle for you getting out of my way so I can hit that bag again."

"You need to find a better way to cope," Phil challenged.

"Like what?" Clint fired back. " _Talk_ about it? You _know_ the story. You can't fix it, Phil. Nothing can. But this can make it better." He gestured at the old punching bag.

"But beating your hands bloody?" Phil arched a sarcastic brow.

"By taking all the rage and pain and channeling into something other than a person," Clint countered. "I either hit that bag, or I end up throwing down with the first jackass that crosses my path. I'll try not to, but you know me, Phil. I gotta get it out somehow."

Phil sighed. He remembered the early days when Clint didn't know himself so well. When he took all that anger and pain and let it loose on the first person that pissed him off. He was always spoiling for a fight back then. Phil supposed he should count it as progress that Clint was taking steps to _avoid_ those senseless brawls now.

"Put gloves on at least."

"I don't _want_ gloves."

" _I_ don't care.."

"You're a goddamned mother hen, you know that?" Clint snapped, striding towards the equipment room. Phil waited patiently until he returned with sparring gloves. "Happy?"

"Thrilled."

"Great. Now leave me alone."

Phil dipped his chin in surrender and started to walk away, but then paused.

"Clint?"

"God, what now?" Clint asked, but there was an amused grin on his face.

"Spar with me."

Clint sobered with a frown.

"That's not a good idea."

"Afraid you can't handle me?" Phil taunted, sliding off his jacket and loosening his tie.

Clint didn't rise to the bait. He shook his head instead.

"I'm not in the right headspace to spar, Phil."

"I know. Which is why you're gonna spar with me and not some random agent. I know your moves, kid. I can take you."

Clint's eyebrow arched and he smirked, obviously finding Phil's claim amusing.

"Nat's taught me a thing or two. You sure you're ready for this old man?"

Phil grinned.

"Take your best shot, kid."

An hour later Phil was bruised and stiff and realizing just how old he was getting. But Clint was laughing again and being the normal endearing little shit Phil cared so much about. It made the bruises worth it.

* * *

 _I cannot WAIT to finish NSAH and have you guys meet my version of Barney finally. Can. Not. Wait._

 _Sorry this was a day late. THe last two days have been exhausting and very busy. More tomorrow!_


	9. Self Inflicted

_The prompt for this one was "self inflicted". It's a bit on the short side, but it felt right to me. And with it being done, perhaps I can get another one out tonight._

* * *

Natasha cursed under her breath and watched their target haul Clint up, twisting one arm behind his back and jamming a gun against his neck.

Clint used his free arm to try and pull the gun away but in his concussed haze, couldn't manage it. Blood trickled down his temple, curling around his eye and trailing down to his chin. Natasha watched him blink, eyes dazed, as he tried to recover from the unexpected blow he had taken.

Natasha had a knife in her hand in the span of a breath, but it wouldn't do her much good from this distance and she wouldn't be able to go for the gun resting uselessly in her pack without the guy noticing.

Clint was going to have to get _himself_ out of this.

She drifted towards them, trying to get into throwing range.

"Don't come any closer," their target snapped, pressing the gun harder against Clint's neck. He blinked again, and his eyes were a bit clearer. He glanced at her, one brow quirking in question.

Was there a plan?

She shook her head slightly.

No, there wasn't.

He flicked a glance down at the gun pressed against his neck and she saw something reckless and stupid spark in his gaze.

She tilted her head in warning, glaring silently across the space between them.

 _Don't._ She willed him.

As if hearing her, he glanced back up and meet her eyes.

Then the asshole grinned.

He wrapped a hand around the gun. Shifted it from his neck to his upper shoulder, and forced the target to pull the trigger. The bullet tore through the flesh and muscle above his collarbone and cut into the chest of the man behind him.

Clint staggered forward when the target released him, stripping the gun from his hand as he did. Natasha rushed forward, catching him with a supporting hand on his rubs and they both watched the target collapse, shock still painted on his face.

Clint wrapped an arm around her shoulders and let her take some of his weight as they turned away.

"What the _hell_ was that?" She demanded, leaning to snatch up her pack and shoving it into his hand so that she could dig out a pressure bandage.

"Creative problem solving. Shield taught a class on it."

"I must have missed that one," she grossed as she slapped the bandage on, glaring at him when he dared to grunt in pain. "And _you_ listened in a SHIELD class?"

"Hey, that's offensive," he argued. "I attend EVERY SHIELD training thing that Phil makes me go to."

"There's a difference between going and listening," she shot back.

"Well I might have read between some lines…expounded on the lesson…used a loose translation."

"You slept through it, didn't you? And just made all this up as you went along," She replied with roll of her eyes.

"Hey, I'm sure I'd had a rough night the night before. And I got the job done, didn't it?"

"Clint, you _shot_ yourself."

"Really? Hadn't noticed," he volleyed back with a sarcastic smirk.

"How are you going to explain this to Wilson? Tell him it was in a SHIELD class?" she asked with a chuckle.

"Wilson knows better than to expect any sort of real explanation from me by now."

"Okay. How are you going to explain this to _Phil_?"

Clint came to a stop, forcing her to stop with him. She glanced up to see horror painted across his face.

"Oh God, Phil's gonna kill me, isn't he?"

"Only if I don't beat him to it, идиот." _(idiot.)_

* * *

 _Somebody tell my kids to be calm and quiet so mommy can write lol JK - they're 3 and 5 months so calm and quiet don't exist unless they're sleeping. Hopefully more later today!_


	10. Held At Gunpoint

_The prompt for this one was "Held at gunpoint" forgive any mistakes, I was exhausted when writing this lol_

* * *

" _Go ahead, do it."_

Phil felt his eyes go wide and he pressed the comm harder into his ear.

"What did you just say?" he demanded, then looked at where Natasha was watching the scene across the alley through binoculars. "What did he just say?" he asked.

"You're gonna wanna see this," she muttered. Then paused, pulling the binoculars away from her eyes to glance sideways at him. "Actually, you probably _don't_ want to see this."

Phil rolled his eyes and snatched his own binoculars off the table.

"Just move over," he groused.

It took him a moment to find Clint down below, but once he did, Phil felt his blood pressure skyrocket.

"Goddamnit," he hissed.

Clint was on his knees, hands up in surrender, with no less than three guns pointed at him. One of those guns was pressed directly into his forehead. Whatever the man threatening him was saying, Clint didn't appear impressed.

" _Don't just talk about it._ _ **Do it**_ **.** _You see your two buddies watching? Pull the trigger."_

Phil stiffened.

"That was a signal," he snapped, but Natasha was already moving. She retrieved Clint's sniper rifle from its case and shoved the desk until it was in front of the window.

" _I'll even give you a countdown,"_ Clint went on mockingly.

"Quickly!" Phil urged.

"I'm going! You could help you know!"

" _Five."_

Phil didn't want to take his eyes off Clint because it would be _just_ like him to get himself shot when Phil wasn't looking. But Natasha needed that desk clear to set up the rifle. He tore his eyes away from the scene down below and helped her clear the desk, throwing things to the floor without care.

" _Four."_

Natasha stretched out on the desk, tucking the gun against her shoulder and adjusting the sites.

" _Three."_

Phil brought the binoculars back up, finding Clint again.

" _Two."_

He heard Natasha curse and then she shifted a few inches closer to the window, angling the rifle down a bit more.

" _One."_

Natasha fired in the same breath that Clint moved. He surged up, twisting the gun out of the man's grip even as it fired. One of the other two men fell to Natasha's shot. Clint spun the gun in his hand, firing a single round into the man's forehead just as the third man fell to Natasha's second shot.

Phil watched Clint press a hand to the side of his face and then look at his palm.

Phil couldn't see it from here, but he just _knew_ Clint was somehow bleeding.

"Hawkeye, report," Phil barked.

" _Which one of you took the shots?"_ Clint asked instead. _"Wait, don't tell me."_ They watched him crouch down to inspect one of the bodies. _"Nice one, Tash."_

Phil saw Natasha smirk proudly out of the corner of his eye.

"This is an open line, Hawk," Natasha scolded without any heat.

" _Pretty sure anybody who might be trying to listen in is dead so…I'm not too worried about it,_ _ **Tash**_ _."_

Phil rolled his eyes. These two were going to drive him to early retirement.

"Clint, _report_ ," he tried again.

" _Why doesn't he get scolded?"_

"Better answer him, that vein is starting to pop out," Natasha warned.

" _Well…there are three bodies. But you already knew that. Luckily, I'm not one of them. Did I miss anything?"_

As usual, Phil was going to have to drag it out of him.

"Are you hurt?"

Still watching through the scope, Natasha was silent, obviously waiting for the answer too.

" _No more than usual."_

"What the hell does that mean?" Phil snapped. Clint's definition of 'usual' could range from a papercut to multiple gunshot wounds.

" _It means you're a freaking mother hen, is what it means. Since I know you're still creeping on me with the binoculars, you can see I'm obviously not dying. I'll be back there in less than ten minutes and then you can fret to your little heart's content."_

Phil dropped the binoculars from his eyes quickly, noticing Natasha lifting her head from the scope at the same time. The exchanged a sheepish glance and then got to work putting the room back in order while they waited.

Phil worked on the desk while Natasha carefully cleaned and packed Clint's rifle back into its case. She was just zipping it closed when the door to the room opened.

Clint strode in, tossing Phil a thumb drive. It had been what he'd gone in to steal in the first place. Phil caught it, eyes scanning Clint for obvious injuries. The only thing he could see was a very shallow line of a blood along his cheekbone.

"Bullet grazed me when I took the gun off him," Clint explained without prompting. "Damn thing must have had a hair trigger."

"That's it?" Phil asked doubtfully.

"Scouts' Honor," Clint swore.

"You were never a scout," Phil reminded, moving to the computer to plug in the thumb drive.

Clint chuckled.

"Good thing too. I'd have probably got kicked out day damn one."

Phil couldn't argue with _that_ and focused on looking over the stolen data while Natasha went after Clint with the first aid kit. It did not escape Phil's notice that Clint didn't put up _nearly_ the same fight with her that he would have if Phil had come at him with antiseptic and butterfly bandages.

At least their against-protocol relationship – which Phil had no plans of reporting because for once Clint and happiness seemed to be on the same page – had some useful perks.

* * *

 _Idk how I feel about this one, but i'm so so tired that I could just be judging it too harshly. *shrugs* hope you guys like it at least! more tomorrow!_


	11. Self Sacrifice

_The prompt for this one was "Self sacrifice" and those of you that have been with me a while, know Clint's hardwired for that type of thing. So I went a little lighter with this since we've had the angsty version of that in the VPU before ;)_

* * *

"Don't you dare," Phil snapped, watching Clint edge closer to the end of the wall.

"He wants a hostage, I'll give him one," Clint shot back. "Better me than a civilian."

"If he makes you for an operative, he'll kill you."

"Then we better hope you trained me well," Clint replied with a cheeky grin. He handed his weapons over to Phil, hesitating with his knife before giving him that too. "I feel naked."

"If you get yourself killed…" Phil trailed off ominously.

"Yeah, yeah, you'll _kill_ me," Clint finished with a grin and a wink. Then he morphed before Phil's eyes, eyes going wide and face going innocent and scared. He ducked like he was trying to take cover and ran out of the hallway.

Phil pursued him to the edge of the wall and then stopped, listening.

"Hey! Stop! STOP!" a disembodied voice commanded harshly.

"I-I'm sorry. Please don't kill me…please don't…"

Phil had to hand it to him. Clint was one of the best undercover operatives he'd ever known. Phil could hear _fear_ in his voice and the tremble really sold it. There was a sound of a scuffle and then the attacker's voice rang out again.

"Nobody move or I kill the kid!"

Phil risked a peek around the corner. The man had Clint in a headlock, a gun pressed against his temple. Clint met his gaze and then rolled his eyes as if this was all some big joke to him. Phil ducked back out of sight and cursed.

"Damn, stupid kid," he muttered to himself as he checked his gun. "Let's go to the mall, he said. It'll be relaxing. Yeah, my blood pressure's never _been_ so high."

"I want a million dollars and a car!" Clint's captor yelled, apparently to whoever happened to be listening. The local police hadn't even arrived yet. Clint was probably barely containing his laughter at the amateur nature of this whole thing.

"He wants a hostage," Phil went on, mimicking Clint mockingly. "I'll make him run maneuvers for _weeks_ after this. 'I'll give him one' my ass."

Sirens echoed in the distance. Time was almost up.

"Anytime now, kid," Phil muttered, risking another look.

Clint was closely eyeing the retreat of the civilians in the area. Likely ensuring they were at a safe distance before he acted.

"I said no cops!" the man yelled to no one in particular.

Apparently, that was the last straw for Clint, because he snorted.

The man jammed the gun roughly against Clint's head.

"Something funny?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry," Clint made a half-hearted effort to contain his laughter. "You're just really bad at this."

"Excuse me?" the man growled, digging the gun into Clint's temple.

Clint just grinned. Phil wanted to strangle him.

"You didn't say 'no cops' for one. Trust me, I was listening. You're just kind of shouting at everyone but no one is _really_ listening because they're too busy running. But that wasn't even your _biggest_ mistake."

"Oh yeah?" the man asked angrily. "What _was_ my biggest mistake?"

Clint's grin turned feral.

"Me."

Clint moved, and the gun went off.

Phil might have shouted something as Clint and his captor went down in a tangle of limbs. Phil rushed forward, his own gun ready. He froze when another shot echoed through area. Both Clint and the captor went still.

"Kid, if you got yourself shot so help me…" Phil snagged Clint's shoulder and pulled him back.

There was blood all over his shirt.

"Oh my God." Phil yanked him away from the unmoving gunman and went to his knees, pawing at Clint's t-shirt and looking for a wound.

"Phil. _Phil_!" Clint's hands caught Phil's wrists. "Calm down. It's not mine."

Phil froze, eyes rising to meet Clint's.

"It's not mine," Clint assured again.

"You're bleeding," Phil realized blankly.

"No, Phil. It's not m-"

"On your head."

That shut Clint up. He frowned, hand rising to touch the furrow a bullet had carved through his hairline. Phil caught his hand.

"Don't touch it."

"It's not that bad," Clint decided even though he had no evidence to support the claim. "I mean, I didn't even get knocked out by it."

"So bullet wounds are okay if they don't force you into unconsciousness?" Phil wondered with a sarcastic arch to his brow.

"I mean…maybe not _okay_. But not as big a deal at least."

"Kid," Phil waited until he had Clint's full attention, "it's _always_ a big deal. Whether it's a shallow little crease or an honest to God hole in your body. It's a big deal to _me_ , okay?"

Clint held his gaze and then sighed dramatically.

"You're such a mother hen sometimes."

"Whatever it takes to keep you alive, kid."

"It's barely even bleeding," Clint protested.

"How would you know? You can't even see it."

"I can feel it."

"You can feel it bleeding? _Really_?" Phil challenged.

"Sure I can."

"What's it feel like then."

"Wet," Clint replied simply.

Phil rolled his eyes.

"Come on." He hauled Clint up. "The local PD is gonna be in here any minute. Let's go."

"Should I really be moving with this headwound Phil? Maybe you should carry me. No wait, piggy back ride."

"I'm not carrying you."

"But Phil," Clint protested mockingly. "I'm wounded."

"You've made your point."

"Really? Already? I had enough material to go on for at least 10 more minutes."

Phil shoved him towards the exit and cast a look to the heavens for strength.

* * *

 _That one was fun! Hope you enjoyed! More tomorrow!_


	12. Starvation

_The prompt for this one was "starvation"_

* * *

When Phil burst through the metal cell door, gun up and eyes lethal, the figure sitting wearily against the wall didn't even flinch. Phil lowered the gun immediately and was kneeling next to Clint in three strides.

"Hey, kid," he greeted gently.

Clint's lethargic gaze took a few moments to focus on him, and a few moments more to spark with recognition. Clint's face was bruised, his lips dry and cracked. He'd lost weight, even in the short – _so long_ – five days that he'd been held captive.

"Let's get you out of here, huh?" Phil coaxed. "Dan is on the jet prepping an IV with your name on it."

Clint blinked sluggishly, brow furrowing slightly as if he was struggling to process what Phil was telling him.

"Can you stand?" Phil asked, already sliding an arm behind Clint's back and pulling the archer's arm over his shoulders. He carefully hauled Clint up without waiting for a response.

Clint sagged against him and Phil adjusted his grip so that he didn't drop him, but in the end had to duck down and heft Clint over his shoulders in a fireman's carry.

"I gotcha, kid," he promised softly.

The TAC team that had breached the compound with him met them at the door to the cell.

"We got your six, Overwatch," Jake, the team leader, assured with a sharp nod. "Get him out of here."

"The objective?" Phil asked.

"Handled," Jake replied simply.

Phil nodded and started for the exit.

They hadn't come for Clint, not officially. This was an op to take down the drug trafficker that ran out of this compound. Clint being held here was a happy coincidence – or so the official report would read.

SHIELD didn't do rescues.

But Phil did.

* * *

"How bad is it?" Phil asked as he watched Clint breathe slowly and evenly, lost in a drug induced sleep.

"Judging by the condition he's in? He hasn't had food or water since he went missing. I haven't seen dehydration this bad since my own military days," Dan Wilson groused as he checked the IV bag, glanced at his watch, and then wrote something on his data pad. "The IV will rehydrate him and get some nutrients into him. We'll worry about the rest once we get him back to New York."

Phil nodded, sinking down to sit on the floor next to Clint's cot in the back of the jet. Dan worked around him without missing a beat. Phil threw all sense of boundaries to the wind and took Clint's hand in his own. It could be his imagination, but Clint's hand felt thinner than it had before this mission. Clint's fingers twitched, but a glance at his face showed no signs of consciousness. Dan had him drugged to the gills, though, so that was no surprise.

"You're gonna be okay, kid," Phil promised quietly.

* * *

"This sucks."

"Eloquent as always, Clint," Phil teased as he tossed down his cards. "Gin."

"I thought we were playing poker," Clint replied with a frown.

Phil rolled his eyes.

"I knew you weren't paying attention when I explained the rules."

"I'm better at Go-Fish," Clint answered with a shrug.

Phil chuckled.

"That's because you _lie_ in Go-Fish."

Clint's lips quirked devilishly, and he didn't bother denying it.

"I want _food_ ," Clint stated suddenly.

Phil collected the cards, tapping them against the bedside tray to get them aligned.

"Dan said maybe today."

"I want pizza," Clint decided.

"Maybe take it a little slower than that," Phil replied with a grin. "I think he mentioned jello."

Phil schooled his expression and bit back a smile when Clint made a disgusted face.

"I hate jello."

"You think I don't know that by now, Barton?" Dan replied as he blew into the room. "Dinner is served."

Dan held out a single chocolate pudding cup.

"Slowly," Dan warned. "But enjoy." He tossed the cup to Phil and strode back out of the room, jotting something on his tablet as he went.

Phil pulled off the foil top of the pudding and stuck a spoon into it. He started to hand it over, but when he caught sight of Clint's ravenous expression, he held it back.

" _Slowly_. You haven't had anything solid in almost a week."

"Yeah, yeah, gimme." Clint held out a hand.

Phil gave him the pudding and then sat back, eyeing him critically.

Despite his initial enthusiasm, Clint hesitated before actually eating any. Phil watched his expression twitch with discomfort and then he frowned.

"Doesn't sound quite so good anymore, does it?" Phil guessed.

"My stomach is cramping just looking at it," Clint admitted.

"Take a small bite. You can't live off an IV for the rest of your life and if you don't start taking in solids Dan's gonna go extreme on you."

Clint glared at the offending needle that was taped against his skin and then shuddered at the thought of a feeding tube.

With a determined look I his eyes, he stuck the spoon into his mouth.

He didn't throw it back up, but did grimace a little.

"Well," Clint sighed, "at least it's not jello."

* * *

 _There you go! More tomorrow!_


	13. Sleep Deprivation

_The prompt for this one was "sleep deprivation"...so have some angst_

* * *

Clint stretched out on the rooftop with a sigh, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and letting his legs dangle over the edge. He stared up at the stars, briefly marveling at the vastness of the space above him.

He didn't move when he heard the door to the rooftop open. Didn't move when footsteps approached and didn't move when Phil stretched out next to him.

"How're you doing?" Phil asked with deceptive casualness as he settled in to stare at the stars with him.

"I'm tired," Clint replied simply. "Wish I could freakin' sleep."

"How long has it been? Three days?"

"Yeah," Clint affirmed with a sigh.

"And you can't get to sleep at all?" Phil asked worriedly.

"Oh, getting to sleep isn't the problem. It's my goddamned subconscious that's causing all the trouble. I feel like I close my eyes and it's nightmare central."

"Shit, kid," Phil commiserated with a sight of his own. "Have you thought about asking Wilson for a sleeping pill?"

"And be _trapped_ in my own head all night? No thanks."

Phil quirked a brow in acceptance and tilted his head in agreement.

"Haven't had a cycle like this in years," Clint admitted with a frown.

"Any idea what caused it?"

"That intel report we got on that guy in Laos," Clint replied immediately.

Phil's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"What are you talking about?"

"That guy in Laos," Clint repeated.

"I got that part, what about him?"

Clint hesitated, frowning up at the sky. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.

"I killed his dad."

Phil blinked at him in shock.

"You did what?"

Clint rolled his head to glare at him.

"Am I stuttering?"

"Sorry, I just…shit, kid, when?"

"When do you think?" Clint shot back irritably. He felt immediately guilty and shot Phil an apologetic glance. "He was a teenager at the time, but it was six years ago. Apparently, he's grown up and followed in daddy's footsteps. So now, in a week, I get to go kill a kid that only became a criminal overlord because I killed his dad six years ago."

"You don't know that," Phil argued.

"The intel specifically identified him as the boss."

"No," Phil shook his head. "You don't know that his dad's death is the reason he went into the trafficking business. He was likely being groomed since infancy."

"Me killing his dad still opened the door for him. I don't do that six years ago, maybe dad's still alive today. Maybe this guy goes to college instead. Maybe he meets a girl, settles down and decides to pass on the whole criminal overlord thing all together."

"That's a lot of maybes," Phil pointed out.

Clint shrugged.

"It must be tough carrying the weight of the world," Phil commented with an arched eyebrow.

Clint frowned and turned to glare at him.

"What?" Phil wondered. "Don't like being called out on acting the martyr?"

"I'm not…"

"What you're doing is trying to claim ownership over someone else's life choices. Believe it or not, kid, you _aren't_ the devil on anyone's shoulder. This guy? He made his _own_ damn choices. He chose this life. He chose to be a criminal. He chose to kill people to protect his assets. That's not on you. I won't let you take on the weight of other people's choices."

"But…"

"But nothing," Phil snapped. "You of all people should know that losing a parent doesn't give you a free pass to do whatever you want. His dad got killed. Fine. A lot of people lose their dads without turning to a life of crime. You didn't _do_ this to him."

Clint stared at the sky in contemplation.

"You want to talk about 'maybes'?" Phil asked. "Maybe this kid _does_ go to college. And maybe he brings his daddy's drugs with him. And maybe we suddenly have a new drug sweeping through college campuses. Maybe a kid overdoses. Maybe that kid was supposed to be the next president."

Clint rolled his eyes.

"That's a bit of a reach."

"No more so that you trying to blame yourself for a life path this kid was set on _years_ before you came anywhere near him."

Clint frowned a little, clearly having never thought of it that way.

"You aren't the source of all the bad in the world, you know," Phil added quietly. "I know someone put that into your head once, but it's not true."

Clint rolled his head to look at him.

"You sure about that?" he asked with a self-depreciating grin.

Phil met his gaze, eyes sincere.

"What bad have you brought to me?" he asked seriously.

Clint stared at him for a moment and then his expression softened, and he grinned, turning back to look at the stars.

"You big softy," Clint accused.

"Don't tell anyone," Phil replied with a chuckle as he turned his gaze upward too. "You think you can sleep now?" he asked.

When there was no immediate reply, Phil glanced over.

Clint's eyes were closed. Phil smiled and settled in more comfortably.

"I suppose that's what we call 'asked and answered.'"

* * *

 _I figured it was about time someone called Clint on his guilt complex. The boy carries the weight of the world and he shouldn't. Anyway, more tomorrow. And for those of you that are worried, I will continue to do these until I finish all 31 prompts, even if that takes me into November...which it most assuredly will lol_


	14. Conditioning - Brainwashing

_The prompt for this one was "Conditioning/Brainwashing"_

* * *

 _You are control._

Natasha's focus narrowed as the once familiar mantra – brought to mind by recent events – rolled through her mind, her instructors harsh voice ringing in her ears. She dodged a punch aimed for her head and narrowly evaded a kick that swiftly followed.

 _You are discipline._

She had been trained for her entire life to be a weapon. It had been all she was for as long as she could remember. She was the one who had earned the coveted title of "Black Widow". Only her. No one else. She spun, striking out with her elbow and then spun again, bracing her foot on her opponent's thigh so she could launch herself up and get her legs around his neck.

 _You are precision._

No wasted movements, not useless actions. Every attack was meant to harm, every move made with the intent to kill.

She was a weapon.

She was _the_ weapon. The Red Room's most valuable asset.

She threw her weight to the floor, thighs tightening around her opponent's throat as she forced him down with her. They both hit the mat hard, his hands digging into her thighs.

She heard shouting, but ignored it.

She was control. She was discipline. She was precision.

She was the Black Widow, meant to be lethal and nothing else.

"GODDAMNIT NATASHA! SNAP OUT OF IT!"

Natasha flinched, eyes going wide in surprise when Phil's face suddenly formed in front of her. His hands were on her legs, trying to pry them apart. Natasha's eyes went even wider when she realized why.

Clint.

 _Oh God…_

She loosened her hold immediately, scrambling back across the training mat to stare with horrified eyes as Phil tapped Clint's cheek, trying to rouse him.

"What the hell happened?" Todd Bryan shouted as he came running out of his office.

"Call Dan!" Phil snapped, shifting a wary glance at Natasha before focusing back on Clint. "Clint, come on, kid, open your eyes."

"Is he okay?" Natasha asked as Todd about faced and ran back to his office, returning a moment later with a radio held to his mouth. He jogged across the gym to kneel next to Clint. "Is he okay?" Natasha asked again, louder this time.

Phil's hand was resting on Clint's neck, fingers on the pulse point.

"Phil!" Natasha snapped when he still didn't answer.

"He's alive," Phil replied, but that was all he offered. He tapped Clint's cheek again while Todd had a conversation Natasha couldn't focus on. Her eyes settled on Clint's face, lax with unconsciousness.

What had she done?

The gym doors slammed open a few moments later and Dan Wilson led the way in for a small contingent of medical personnel. They swarmed around Clint, hiding him from her view. They were so focused on him, in fact, that nobody noticed when she stood and fled the gym.

* * *

"Would you lay back down!" Phil snapped, trying unsuccessfully to push Clint back onto the infirmary bed.

"You just let her wander off? After _that_?" Clint demanded, stubbornly shoving Phil's hands away and putting his feet on the floor.

"She almost _killed_ you," Phil pointed out. "I was a little distracted!"

"It wasn't her fault. She was-"

"Terrifying?" Phil offered with a scowl.

" _Lost_ ," Clint corrected sharply. "Since when are you so unforgiving?"

"She almost _killed_ you!" Phil repeated.

"It's _Natasha!_ " Clint snapped back, eyes flashing. "She's still recovering from what happened in Germany. You _know_ that," he argued.

Phil sighed, looking away, and visibly calmed himself.

"I have to go find her," Clint decided, pulling off the various medical leads attached to him. He reached over to turn of the monitoring machine just as it started screeching.

"Clint…" Phil shook his head.

"I'll be _fine_ ," he insisted, then he met Phil's gaze seriously. "I'm not always the most important one, Phil. She needs me right now."

Phil's shoulders drooped and he nodded.

Clint headed for the door.

* * *

Natasha huddled into the old gray Army sweatshirt she'd stolen from Clint ages ago, inhaling what little of his scent still lingered. Her hair, shorter now than it had ever been in her life, whipped around her face as the breeze blew across the rooftop. She heard the roof access door open and shot loudly, the new arrival making absolutely no attempt to conceal his arrival.

She couldn't help but look over to watch him approach, eyes straying to his throat. Bruises were already forming where her attack had nearly killed him. To her frustration, the sight brought moisture to her eyes and she had to look away, back out over the compound.

He made his way lazily over to her, looming over her for a moment once he reached her side.

"First you steal my roof spot and now you steal my hoodie?" he teased. His voice, though a little rough, sounded mostly okay. Maybe she hadn't done any serious damage.

"I stole both years ago," she replied, though she was unable to look at him.

Clint harrumphed and dropped down to sit next to her. They sat in silence for a moment before he swayed into her, bumping her shoulder with his.

"You gonna start talking or am I gonna hafta drag it out of ya?" he prodded, leaning to try and catch her eye. She just looked further in the other direction. "Nat, come on."

"I almost killed you," she hissed, angry when her eyes welled again just at the _thought_.

" _Almost_ being the operative word there," he pointed out lightly.

"It's not _funny_ , Clint," she snapped, still refusing to look at him. She heard him sigh.

"Nat, look at me." She didn't. "Natasha."

God, how was that he could just say her name and her defenses fell. Reluctantly she turned to face him, but kept her eyes downcast.

"I'm okay," he stated firmly. "I promise. No permanent damage."

She finally looked up, eyes skirting over the bruises and then up to meet his gaze.

"Talk to me," he instructed calmly. "We handle this shit together, remember? No more lies, no more secrets."

She sighed at the reminder of the promise they'd made each other after Germany and everything that followed with Alexi.

"I used to think that I was stronger than them," she started quietly, looking down at her hands where they fidgeted with the cuff of the sweatshirt. "That all the brainwashing and conditioning didn't stick."

"It didn't. You fought it," Clint replied.

"I thought I did." She shook her head. "But in there today…I got _lost_. And it's like I was there again. I was the weapon they made me."

"Okay first of all? You're not a weapon. You're a person who happens to be _lethally_ good at many things," Clint explained with a slight grin. She couldn't help but grin in response. But then he sobered. "Nat, after what happened in Germany, you know things are going to be fresh. But you resisted the Red Room as a kid. And when it mattered, you resisted what the asshat in Germany did to you too."

"I almost killed you then too," she pointed out with a frown.

"Again… _almost_ being the operative word," he reminded seriously. "You came out of it and found your way back."

"Because of you," she pointed out.

"What the hell do you think I'm here for?" he replied. "To be arm candy? You have your demons, Nat. You sure as hell know I have _mine_. We wade through the shit _together_. We anchor each other. We ground each other. And we don't hold the bad days _against_ each other," he finished with a meaningful arch to his brow.

Natasha sighed, and then shifted closer so their shoulders were pressed together.

"That's how this shit works, right?" she eventually replied.

"That's how this shit works," he agreed.

* * *

 _When I saw this prompt, my mind went directly to her. I haven't REALLY gone into what she went through as a kid yet, but that day will come. Hope you enjoyed :)_


	15. Drugged

_The prompt for this one was 'drugged'. Again, I've hit this type of thing with angst in a one of my regular fics, so I went lighter here._

* * *

"What did you _give_ him?" Phil demanded as he watched Clint stare at his own hand with undue intensity.

"He was combative," the doctor replied sharply. "We gave him something to keep him compliant so we could treat him."

Phil stared at the doctor, Stevens according to his nametag. He looked about 10 years old and Phil couldn't wait to find out where in the hell SHIELD had dug him up from. While he was at it, he would love to find out why they'd started hiring _children_ as doctors.

"He's a highly trained operator," Phil snapped. "Now he's a _stoned_ highly trained operator. Do you have _any_ idea what you've done?"

The child doctor stared at him in confusion and Phil just shook his head. He looked back at Clint, only to curse. The bed was empty.

"Where'd he go?" the doctor asked in bewildered confusion.

Phil pushed into the room and scanned the ceiling. A vent cover was missing, probably pushed up into the vent.

"Shit."

"Where is he?" the doctor asked again.

Phil just glared at him and strode out of the room.

An unfamiliar base, and Clint was running loose. Injured, drugged, and probably with no real plan behind his actions.

Phil snapped his phone out as he stalked out of the infirmary.

" _Wilson_." Another voice greeted.

"I need you in San Diego."

" _Okay."_ Dan agreed immediately. _"What's going on?"_

"Clint got hurt down on that job in Tijuana. This was our nearest base. The 10 year old doctor they've got on staff here drugged him up to his gills and now he's wandering the goddamned base through the vents."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

" _I'm on my way."_

Phil shoved his phone back in his pocket. People cleared a path before him as he walked, which was just as well. He had a stoned agent to find.

He found him an hour later, standing on the half wall that ran around the perimeter of the rooftop.

"Clint," Phil greeted calmly, though his heart was now racing in his chest.

Clint turned to face him, eyes wide, pupils dilated.

"Phil!" he greeted brightly. "Look at this view!" Clint swept a hand wildly around, wobbling dangerously.

Phil quickstepped closer and resisted the urge to snatch at him, worried he would startle him into falling.

"You should see this!" Clint proclaimed.

"I'm right here," Phil pointed out. "I see it."

"Look! There's a bird in that tree!" Clint announced, taking a few uncoordinated steps along the wall and pointing. Phil matched his progress, hands hovering in mid-air, ready to grab him if he started to fall. "Do you see it?!" Clint asked.

Phil squinted, staring at the stand of trees in the distance.

"No."

"It's right _there_." Clint pointed, head tilted and tongue caught between his teeth as he strained to point _exactly_ at the bird only he could see.

"Why don't you come down from there," Phil suggested.

Clint didn't even seem to hear him.

"Oh _look_!" Clint ran a few steps back along the wall, arms windmilling as he nearly unsettled his own balance.

Phil cursed, heart pounding hard in his chest.

"Clint, come down!"

"A purple elephant!"

Phil stared at him, nearly overcome with a sudden urge to laugh.

Clint was petting the air.

"No, I haven't seen any green monkeys, but I'll keep my eyes peeled," Clint said seriously, obviously responding to some concern the elephant had relayed.

Phil shook his head, biting down a smile.

"Clint, come on, kid. The elephant wants you to get down."

"No, he doesn't," Clint argued bluntly.

Phil sputtered.

"Well I want you to," he finally replied.

"Okay!" Clint chirped, leaping from the wall. Phil barely got there in time to keep him from crumbling into a heap on the rooftop.

"You okay?" Phil asked worriedly when Clint looked a little pale.

"Phil!" Clint greeted brightly. "You're here!"

"So it seems," Phil agreed with an amused shake of his head.

"Did you see the elephant?" Clint asked seriously.

For some reason Phil actually turned his head and _looked_.

"Don't!" Clint snapped. "He doesn't like eye contact!"

Phil rolled his eyes heavenward and gently urged Clint towards the roof access door.

"Back to bed with you."

"But the monkeys, Phil!"

"What about them?"

"Look an alligator!"

The journey back to the infirmary was rife with animal spottings, including but not limited to a kangaroo, a sloth, and a tattooed caterpillar with a top hat.

Phil repeatedly told himself it wasn't funny. That Clint was going to be furious when he came around and realized he'd been drugged so heavily.

But he also laughed for five minutes straight when Clint very seriously told him that the pink koala bear was plotting to kill Fury.

* * *

 _This one was fun haha sorry it wasn't up yesterday. I was busy with work stuff until very late. More tomorrow_


	16. Sensory Deprivation

_I plan to one day address Clint's canon deafness in an actual VPU fic. So this is NOT considered VPU canon. I am not deaf and can't speak for what it is actually like, so please forgive me for my ignorance._

 _Prompt was "Sensory Deprivation"_

* * *

Clint woke with a start, vague memories of an explosion sending his eyes flying open as he jackknifed. Hands were suddenly on him and he lashed out, but the hands fought back until they were on his face.

Natasha's face swam into sight and he focused on her with a frown.

HE watched her mouth move, but no sound came out.

What the hell was she doing?

It only took Clint a moment longer to realize it wasn't just her voice he wasn't hearing. He couldn't hear _anything_. Not the heart monitor he saw flashing frantically out of the corner of his eye. Not the voices of the nurses swarming into the room. Not even his own breathing.

Nothing. Not a sound.

A hand tapped against his cheek and his focus returned to Natasha.

Her mouth was moving again, and he instinctively focused on her lips, deciphering her words easily.

… _an explosion. It's temporary. Calm down. Phil is on his way._

He nodded to show her he understood. Some of the panicked worry left her expression and she sighed, sinking down to sit next to his knee.

A nurse waved to get his attention and then she started speaking.

 _Agent Romanoff tells me you can read lips. Is this true?_

Clint nodded.

 _Good. Signal if I'm going too fast. How's your pain?_

Clint shrugged a shoulder.

Natasha smacked his arm.

Clint rolled his eyes and held up three fingers. Natasha glared and arched an eyebrow. He changed it to four.

The nurse waved for his attention again.

 _Your file says to ask before giving you any drugs. Would you like a painkiller?_

Clint shook his head negatively.

The nurse narrowed her eyes, but didn't argue.

 _The doctor will be in shortly to examine you. I'll send down to the cafeteria for some food. What flavor jello do you prefer?_

Clint dropped his head back on the pillow and groaned.

* * *

"So it shouldn't be permanent?" Phil asked as he stood, arms crossed, and listened to the doctor. Natasha stood next to him, though her gaze remained fixed on where Clint was sleeping in the room beyond the large window.

" _Shouldn't_ be," the doctor replied. "But there are never any guarantees with injuries like this."

Phil nodded, glanced at Clint's sleeping form, then down at his watch.

"When can he be moved?"

The doctor frowned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I want to take him back to New York," Phil replied.

The doctor stared at him.

"Can he be moved?" Phil repeated sharply.

"Yes, I suppose…but not by air. The pressure of being on a plane could be catastrophic."

"I'm always up for a road trip," Natasha piped up.

Phil nodded.

"Road trip it is."

* * *

Clint stared out the window with his head resting back against the headrest. He could feel the vibration of the car beneath him. He could feel the sun on his face through the window. He could feel Natasha's feet draped across his lap as she stretched out across the back seat of the SUV.

He could see Phil driving. Could see the scenery passing.

But he couldn't hear anything.

Two days into their trip from Seattle to New York and nothing had changed.

He glanced over when Natasha touched his arm.

 _Hungry?_ She mouthed.

Clint shrugged a shoulder and nodded.

She held out a bag of Doritos and he gladly took it. He tossed one in his mouth, scowling down at the bag as he chewed. It was still strange, not hearing the crunching of the chips in his mouth.

Natasha touched his arm again.

 _Your face is gonna get stuck like that._

Clint rolled his eyes and didn't bother trying to suppress his grin.

* * *

"What's the verdict?" Natasha asked as Dan finished his exam.

"Everything seems to be healing well. So I'm hesitantly hopeful."

"He's still not hearing _anything_ though," Phil pointed out.

"Give it time," Dan urged. "These things can't be rushed. All we can do is wait."

Clint, who'd been tracking the conversation with narrowed eyes, sighed.

"Waiting," he muttered lowly, overly cautious not to yell. "Awesome."

* * *

It started faintly. Like listening through water.

Clint's brow furrowed as he was pulled from sleep by the muffled sound of Natasha's voice. He rolled in their bed, searching the room for her.

She was pacing near the closet, talking on her phone.

She sensed his gaze and turned, cocking her head in question.

Something about the look on his face must have clued her in because she hung up on whoever she was talking to without so much as a 'goodbye' and stared back.

"You can hear me," she realized.

"Yeah," he replied with a grin.

She smiled so brightly the whole room seemed to light up. Then she moved back to the bed, climbing in and pressing a kiss to his lips before resting her forehead against his.

"You can hear me."

* * *

 _When I do a fic that actually addresses this for real, much more research will be involved lol. Promise. More tomorrow_


	17. Withdrawal

_So sorry for the delay! Life happened and then I broke my arm! :O I probably shouldn't be typing as much as I am but oh well! This one isn't QUITE whump...but...oh well? I hope you enjoy anyway lol. THe prompt was: Withdrawal_

* * *

It started slowly.

Phil didn't realize what was happening at first, it was so subtle. Sitting in the vaguely comfortable conference hall chair, he found himself tapping his pen rhythmically on his notebook. He caught himself and went still, staring down at the pen in confusion. Restless energy wasn't his thing. He didn't _do_ fidgeting.

The first speaker stepped up to the podium and Phil forgot about the pen. At first, he was able to pay rapt attention to the speech, even took a few notes. But then he found himself growing somewhat bored. He glanced instinctively to his side, but, of course, the seat next to him was occupied by a stranger.

The woman gave him an odd look and Phil managed an awkward half smile before quickly shifting his gaze back to the stage. How was it a conference hall full of people, he felt it was _too_ silent? How was no one cracking jokes under their breath? The speaker's haircut was smart ass comment worthy _surely_.

 _A comb over? Those are bad enough when you've_ _ **got**_ _something to comb. But him? Homer Simpson called and wants his haircut back_.

Phil chuckled to himself, only to hide it behind a cough when several people turned to glare at him. He cleared his throat, schooled his expression and focused back on the speaker.

A few very well focused minutes went by.

Phil nearly dropped his pen and notebook when his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket, and the song "I'm Too Sexy" started blasting loudly in the space around them. Phil fumbled to retrieve the device and silence it. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and sent an apologetic glance around at all the eyes staring at him.

Clint had apparently gotten ahold of his phone again.

The little bastard was too sneaky for his own good.

Once all the eyes had stopped glaring at him, Phil felt it was safe enough to look down at his phone.

A text. From Clint.

' _Bored yet? How's the speaker's hair? Homer Simpson? Or bad toupee?'_

Phil stared at the words for several moments, blinking in shock at the uncanny parallel to his own thoughts.

Another text came through and Phil reflexively silenced it before the ringtone could go off again.

' _It's a Homer Simpson isn't it.'_

Phil frowned.

' _Are you here?'_ He texted back.

'… _no?'_

Phil narrowed his eyes.

' _Prove it.'_

A few moments went by, then a picture started loading.

It was a selfie of Clint and Natasha sitting on the base roof, the parkour course below them in the background.

Phil arched a brow and opened a new message to Natasha.

' _Is Clint with you?'_

A few moments later another picture came through, this time from her.

It was a similar selfie, but taken from a different angle.

A message from Clint lit up his screen.

' _You don't trust me?!'_

Phil smirked.

' _I know you too well.'_

A middle finger emoji came in a moment later.

Phil grinned.

' _Some of us are trying to do our jobs. Leave me alone. And stop changing my ringtone.'_

An eye rolling emoji came in then,

' _Fine.'_

Then Phil's phone went silent.

Strangely, Phil couldn't stop himself from checking it for new messages every fifteen minutes for the next three hours until the conference broke for lunch.

* * *

It wasn't until he was sitting in his hotel room that night, listening to classic rock on his phone at a volume he would have once rolled his eyes at, that Phil realized what was happening.

He was channeling Clint.

He abruptly shut off the music, but quickly found the quiet oppressive. Silence used to be comfortable for him, but now he found it deafening.

He stared at his phone and wondered when noise had become the norm.

* * *

By the time his flight landed back in New York, Phil was nearly vibrating with anticipation. It had been five days. Five days of no sarcasm, no music, no inappropriately timed jokes, no mischievous plans, no hole in the wall restaurants, no restless fidgeting, or makeshift targets made on hotel room walls.

Five days of solitude and peace.

Phil was glad it was over.

Clint was waiting for him when the loading platform opened, a cheeky smirk on his face and an energetic bounce in his stance. Phil arched a brow, painted on his most dubious expression and made his way down the ramp.

Clint literally bounced in front of him, gaze dancing with secret mischief.

Phil narrowed his eyes.

"What?" he finally asked warily.

Clint's smirk grew.

"Nothing," he replied.

Phil frowned doubtfully.

"What'd you do?" he asked.

"Nothing," Clint defended innocently, but the look in his eyes contradicted the claim.

"Clint."

The archer rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Remember that asshole in the motor pool that gave me shit for bringing a car back with bullet holes in it?"

Phil frowned more deeply as they started walking out of the hangar.

"Yeah…" he answered slowly.

"Well, considering I had bullet holes in _me_ at the time, I thought it was a little insensitive."

"And?" Phil prodded.

Clint shot him a sideways look and a grin.

"I hid a car from him."

Phil's brows hit his hairline.

"You did _what_ now? You stole a car?"

" _Borrowed_ …creatively."

Phil shook his head and cast a glance heavenward for patience.

But despite his current mystified annoyance for Clint's antics, Phil felt… _normal_ …for the first time in 5 days. You could suffer withdrawal from any number of things…and apparently Clint's presence was one of them.

"Oh come on…if I remember correctly, you were pretty pissed at him for giving me shit too. I believe your exact words were 'Fu-'"

"I remember," Phil interrupted. "I was there."

Clint narrowed his eyes at him.

"You gonna rat me out?"

"Is the car damaged?"

"No."

"You know exactly where it is?"

"Yep."

"You'll make sure nothing happens to it?"

"Sure."

"If the guy starts to catch flack for it being missing?"

"I'll claim ignorance," Clint replied with a smirk.

Phil glared and Clint rolled his eyes.

"I'll bring it back."

Phil waved a dismissive hand. As Clint's pranks went, this one was relatively harmless.

"Then I know nothing about it."

Clint grinned.

And despite himself, Phil grinned too.

* * *

 _Will try to do another one soon! I promise, I fully intended to complete all 31 prompts from Whumptober!_


	18. Flashback

_Hey look, I'm alive! So I told you I would keep doing these till I hit all 31 and I WILL! I've not abandoned this! Life has just been happening and I've been CRAZY busy! But here we are! The prompt for this one is: Flashback_

* * *

"Well…this complicates things."

Clint looked up at Natasha's words, giving her an incredulous glare.

"You _think_?" he shot back sarcastically, gesturing with his right hand at his obviously broken left arm.

"Can you use it?" she asked impatiently, crouching down next to him and eyeing the limb with an arched brow. If he hadn't gotten to know her so well, he might have thought she didn't care. But no. If Natasha didn't care, she wouldn't be crouching next to him right now. She'd have left him behind the moment he'd slowed them down.

Clint scowled down at his arm, clenching his jaw as he forced his fingers to curl into a fist.

"That's good," Natasha announced with a sigh of relief.

Unbidden, a memory rose in his mind of identical words and similar relief in a situation not so different than this one.

* * *

" _I told you not to try the double yet," Kara scolded as she put an arm around Clint's shoulders to help him sit up. Together they watched her mom, Ana, take Clint's arm in her hands._

" _Is he okay?" Brit demanded as he leapt down from the trapeze net and went to his knees next to them. "I saw him fall."_

" _I'm fine," Clint insisted, trying to pull his arm back from Ana. She resisted, and despite her gentle hands, he still clenched his jaw against the sudden spike of pain._

" _It's broken," Ana announced. "Can you move your fingers?"_

 _Clint concentrated on the injured limb and a moment later his fingers curled in._

" _Good," Ana praised with a relieved grin. "That's good."_

" _I saw you almost land a double," Brit whispered lowly with a wink. "Gutsy._ _ **Stupid**_ _…but gutsy."_

" _You know me," Clint replied with a smirk. "Those are my two best qualities."_

 _Brit laughed and Kara reached around to slap his arm. When he looked at her, she shook her head in exasperation._

" _Not funny. You're the reason he does shit like this, you know? You encourage him."_

" _I'm not the one teaching him a double," Brit shot back._

" _Hey! I told him not to try it!"_

" _ **He's**_ _right here!" Clint interjected._

 _The both glared at him and he shrugged, looking at Ana instead. She gave him a grin and then shifted a glare at the other two._

" _ **Children**_ _," she scolded, earning a scowl from both of them. "Perhaps we should focus on the injured teenager between you instead of who bears more responsibility for his reckless nature."_

" _I don't know what they're even arguing about," Clint commented. "Neither of them get credit. My reckless nature is self-taught."_

 _Ana laughed._

" _Oh, Clint…of that, I have no doubt," she replied._

* * *

"Hey! Barton!" Natasha snapped, drawing his focus back to the present. "You in there?"

"Yeah," he replied, clearing his throat and frowning at the gun she was holding out to him. It was his own, dropped when the crowbar had crashed down on his arm.

"Let's go," she urged. Judging by the impatient tone of her voice, it wasn't the first time she'd said it. But still, she hadn't ditched him. The ol' softy.

"What do you expect me to do with that?" he asked as he climbed to his feet.

"Holster it," she replied as if it should have been obvious. Then, without waiting for him to reach out for it with his good arm, she stepped closer, reaching to slide the gun into his thigh holster herself. The move brought them nose to nose. He looked down instinctively and she happened to look up.

Blue met green and the air between them seemed to go suddenly go electric.

He pulled in a half breath just as she blew one out and for a moment he felt frozen in the moment. And some deep and hidden part of him didn't want it to end.

She rocked forward just as he dipped his chin but then she drew in a sharp breath, eyes going wide as she looked down and retreated.

"We should move," she muttered, sneaking a look up at him but only doing a hit and run version of eye contact.

Clint nodded numbly, still trying to process whatever the last 20 seconds had even been. There had been a moment when it almost seemed like…but he shook his head to clear the thought. It couldn't be what it seemed like. She was _Natasha Romanoff_. She was everything and _more_ and so far out of his league it wasn't even funny. And he was… He was just Clint Barton. He didn't see her like that anyway. She was his partner, his friend. Not… _that._

But as he followed after her, he couldn't quite explain the thread of disappointment slicing through him. He couldn't quite shake the memory of whatever that moment had been…of what it had _almost_ been.

She cut a glance over her shoulder at him, something in her eyes that he didn't understand. Then she shook her head as of trying to clear a thought and looked ahead again.

"We need to move," she said again, but the words were tossed over her shoulder and she didn't look back to see if he was following.

Clint drew in a steadying breath.

"Lock it up, Barton," he hissed at himself and then tucked his broken arm against his chest, starting after her with a purposeful stride.

But still, even as they went about their mission – his broken arm nothing but another factor to weigh in their plans – that moment lingered in his thoughts. That single moment where everything could have changed, where nothing might have been become _something_. A lost chance perhaps, an 'almost' that they might never get again.

 _Or maybe_ , some buried part of him whispered, _that 'almost' was just the beginning._

* * *

 _So this definitely took a pre-Clintasha - soon to be Clinstasha - turn haha oops! Sorry, not sorry ;) See you soon with more!_


	19. Panic Attack

_Apologies for the wait! I promise, I do still intend to finish all the whumptober prompts!_

 _Prompt: Panic Attack_

* * *

Natasha pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The French braid she'd secured it in was doing a pretty good job of keeping it out of her way, but trudging through the rainforest all day had left her with more than a few chucks plastered to her face. It didn't help that it had been raining _all day_.

She glanced up at the tarp she and Clint had quickly erected as a shelter, pleased that it still seemed to be holding strong despite the apparent _monsoon_ they'd stumbled into. When they stopped for the night and Clint had insisted on the first watch, she'd hoped the rain might have stopped by the time he woke her for the second half of the night.

No such luck.

He'd seemed reluctant to try to sleep. His mood – which had been sour for as long as it had been raining – had not improved in the hours she'd been resting. She'd finally won that argument by throwing a stray tree nut at his face.

It had hit him square in the forehead and he had only blinked in shock. They _both_ knew that normally he'd have caught it with an uncanny lack of effort.

" _You're exhausted. If you're gonna have my back tomorrow when this goes down, you need to sleep,"_ she had snapped.

He'd grumbled the whole way down, but had eventually curled up next to her on the forest floor, back to the tree, arms crossed tightly across his chest, and his head pillowed on her thigh. He'd been asleep in less than 90 seconds and dead to the world for a solid two hours since. She was pretty sure he hadn't even moved.

Which was why it came as such a shock when he was suddenly flailing himself awake.

Natasha could only blink in surprise when he jackknifed away from her, twisting around with a wild look in his eyes before crab crawling away from her so quickly that when his back made impact with the nearest tree it was with a solid 'smack'.

It was only when he started clawing at a spot high on the right side of his chest that she realized he still wasn't _really_ awake. When he slammed his head back _hard_ against the tree, the tendons of his neck taught with strain, she realized he wasn't _breathing._

She launched herself across the space between them, ignoring the rain that immediately started assaulting her as she left the cover of their tarp. She wrapped both of her hands around the sides of his face.

"Clint!" she nearly shouted, forcing his head forward. But with his eyes clamped closed it didn't much good. "BARTON!" she gave him a sharp shake and his eyes snapped open.

Blue clashed with green and he went absolutely, eerily still.

Then he dragged in a breath, eyes closing again, but this time in relief.

"Shit," she breathed out in relief as she dropped her forehead forward to press against his. For several minutes they just sat there in the rain, foreheads pressed together as they breathed. "What the hell was that?" she eventually asked as she finally pulled back to look at him again.

One hand had risen to wrap around the sleeve of her rain jacket, but the other was still pressed against the upper right side of his chest. She knew the scar it was guarding. She had traced with her gaze a hundred times in the months since everything between them had changed in Vietnam. She knew his own brother had put it there. In all that time, she'd only touched it once. He had flinched away from her and averted his gaze and she hadn't touched it again.

He didn't answer her now. Instead he sat forward, nudging her out of the way – she had ended up pretty much in his lap – so he could push up to his feet. He took a few unsteady steps away from her, one hand still covering the hidden scar. He doubled, bracing his free hand on his knee and went still again, seeming to focus just on breathing.

"Clint?" she called eventually, pushing to her feet so she could warily come a bit closer. She paused a few paces away and waited to see what he'd do.

"I hate the fuckin' rain," he finally stated, straitening to his full height and shifting the hand on his chest to run through his hair instead.

"I know," she replied carefully. He made that fact known every time it rained. But for the first time she asked, "Why?"

He sighed, a deep, full body sigh that made the entire space around him seem weighted. He still didn't face her as he started talking and she didn't venture closer.

"It was raining that night…the night he, my brother, the night he…" he trailed off and cleared his throat. "Ever since then I just…go back there when it rains. It's not always like _that_." He turned a little and waved a vague hand at the tree he'd backed himself into. "But sometimes it is."

Natasha nodded even though he wasn't looking at her. PTSD if she'd ever seen it.

"I wake up and I can feel the knife in my chest again and I can't _breathe_ …and it just… I just…" he blew out a frustrated breath. "Sometimes it takes a minute for me to come out of it."

"Scared the shit out of me," she admitted ruefully.

He huffed a vague chuckle and shot a glance at her over his shoulder.

"Sorry."

"Not really your fault," she pointed out. It's was Barney's. If she ever met the son of a bitch she'd kill him for it. "You okay now?"

He dropped his head back, letting the rain drip down his face for a moment.

"Yeah," he answered, but he didn't sound okay.

Natasha sighed.

"Wanna spar?" she offered eventually. That usually made her feel better and he was always quick to offer it. She saw him grin and knew immediately it had been the right call. He turned to her, already looking lighter.

"Hell yeah."

* * *

 _Short and sweet. I never can pass up a chance for some Clint angst :)_

 _Until next time!_


	20. Threat

_First of all - those of you that witnessed my struggle with this site the last couple of days with the "into the light" fic for the musketeers fandom, I apologize. It was super frustrating on my end, and I imagine equally so on yours as you got multiple notifications if you have me on alert. Anyway, I'm sorry about that._

 _Anyway, here we are with another Whumptober prompt! This is unbeta'd so forgive the mistakes I know are there.  
_

 _This one was: Threat_

* * *

Natasha was trained by the best.

She had been taught at a criminally early age not to let emotion cloud her judgement. She was conditioned to avoid attachment – such a thing would only ever be a liability.

When she'd met Alexi, she'd forgotten that training. She'd forgotten everything she knew about emotions being a weakness, about attachment being a vulnerability. Things had sparked between them like gunpowder – fast and hot. She'd trusted him – _loved_ him – and it had been one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

She'd relearned her lesson about emotion and attachment after that.

She wouldn't let the weakness of her heart betray her again.

Of course, she hadn't counted on meeting Clint Barton. Hadn't counted on him saving her life instead of ending it. Hadn't counted on him giving her a chance at a new life. Hadn't counted on being partnered with him. Hadn't counted on him slowly and steadily becoming someone she couldn't imagine her life without.

It hadn't been fast between them. It hadn't been a lightning strike of passion like it had with Alexi. It had built slowly, steadily – a simmer of _something_ below the surface. A constant burn of 'maybes' and 'almosts' until one day it was just _there_ and there was no going back.

And suddenly simple words like 'emotion' and 'attachment' and even 'love' couldn't come close to defining it.

Now as she sat bound to a high backed, wooden chair, staring across the handful of yards between her and Clint, she was left wondering how she let it get this far.

He was duct taped to a similar chair, immobilized just as she was. There was blood on his face and splotchy bruises already forming, but his eyes were clear. Those blue gray eyes that could both infuriate her and warm her from one second to the next. Right now, they were sharp, demanding that she stay strong; that she hold firm; that she not break.

But as she stared at the gun pressed to his kneecap, she just wanted it to all _stop_.

How had she let herself get in this deep?

"I was already going to kill you," she purred lethally, "but if you pull that trigger, I'll make it _slow_."

She could swear she saw Clint smirk behind the duct tape covering his mouth.

"Are you threatening _me_?" their captor scoffed.

"Threatening, promising…take it however you want," she hissed back.

" _I_ make the threats here," he snapped, pulling the gun away from Clint's knee to jam it against his temple instead.

Natasha's jaw clenched when Clint's eyes narrowed – whether it was from pain or just annoyance was hard to decipher.

"Tell me what I want to know," the man demanded. "Or I will start taking him apart piece by piece."

The gun moved now to press into the back of Clint's left hand.

"Come over here, I'll whisper it to you," Natasha fired back.

"Or perhaps a bullet is too swift," their captor theorized. He slid the gun into the back of his pants and walked to a nearby shelf, retrieving Clint's combat knife from the pile of their weapons. "Do you know how many times someone can be cut with a knife before they die?" He asked as he returned to Clint's side and carefully traced the tip of the blade down the side of his face.

Clint barely seemed to breath as he went absolutely still. He kept his knife sharp enough to split a hair and as the knife traveled it left a thin, shallow cut in its wake.

"Do you?" the man prodded impatiently.

Natasha tore her gaze away from the new injury and glared at him.

"Better than _you_ do," she shot back.

"Tell me the information about the ambassador."

"Tell me if you prefer burial or cremation," she retorted.

Clint snorted despite the knife hovering against his jugular. Amused approval shone in his gaze and Natasha rolled her eyes.

"You're a bad influence," she accused.

Clint's eyebrow lifted innocently as if to say ' _who me?'_

"You are," she reiterated. "Before you came a long I didn't spend nearly so much time _talking_. I just got on with it."

"Got on with what?" their captor demanded, looking annoyed.

Natasha ignored him, glanced at her watch and then met Clint's gaze.

 _Ready?_ She asked silently.

He winked.

An explosion rocked the compound and the room went dark.

Natasha heard Clint lashing out as best he could while she focused on getting free. In the end, wooden chairs were her favorite kind to be tied to. Wooden chairs could break.

She stood, crouched and then launched into a front flip. The air whooshed out of her lungs as the back of the chair slammed into the ground, all but shattering at the impact. She dragged in a breath and pulled the chair apart before launching to her feet. She covered the distance between her and Clint in three, ground eating strides and swung an arm at their captor. With the wooden arm still attached to it, it made a good weapon.

She put the man down just as the emergency lights flickered on.

She glanced at Clint to see his eyes giving away his smirk beneath the tape. She rolled her eyes and moved in front of him, pulling at the broken chair parts until she freed them from her forearms and could toss them aside.

She reached for the tape.

"If I pull this off, no smartass comments."

The humor in his gaze offered no such promise but she pulled the tape off anyway. She grimaced when he immediately turned his head and spit a glob of blood onto the floor.

"Smartass comments? Me?" he wondered in feigned shock. "I would never."

Natasha hummed doubtfully and leaned to retrieve his combat knife from where it had been dropped. She frowned at the shine of blood painting the blade but didn't comment on it right away. Instead, she neatly sliced through the duct tape holding Clint to the chair and held the knife out to him, hilt first. She scowled suspiciously when he took it but didn't immediately try to rise.

"You good?" she asked warily.

"Well…" he hedged. "How pissed are you gonna be if I let him stab me?"

She glared.

"Pretty pissed."

"I was duct taped to the chair!" he defended.

"So was I!" she shot back. "You don't see me getting myself stabbed!" She stalked to their packs next to the shelf where all their weapons were and grabbed hers. She pulled out a pressure bandage as she returned to his side.

"Hey, I'd have done a little flippy, break the chair move too if I'd have had the chance. But my options were limited with the _knife_ he had at my throat."

Natasha pulled him forward, easily finding the tear in his shirt. She frowned at the blood already soaking the black material, but it didn't' appear too deep. She firmly pressed the bandage to the wound and winced at his answering grunt of pain.

"You got a little vengeful there for a minute," he stated suddenly, something in his voice pulling at her heart because he always sounded so damn _surprised_ when someone proved they cared about him.

Satisfied the bandage was secure, she pulled back so she could see his face.

"Yeah well…" she trailed off, shrugging sheepishly.

For all her training on how _not_ to let emotion into things, she wasn't all that great at actually expressing those emotions.

"You like me a little bit, huh?" he teased, letting her off the hook.

She smirked warmly.

"I _tolerate_ you."

"I get that a lot," he admitted wryly.

"Well, you're insufferable."

"It's been said," he agreed with a chuckle. "By _you_ …many, many times."

Natasha smiled and shook her head in amusement.

"Let's go," she decided, pulling him up from the chair. He seemed steady enough so she did her best not to hover as they collected their gear. When she was reoutfitted with her weapons and pack, she turned in time to watch him slide his combat knife into it's hidden sheath at his back. He caught her looking and tossed her a smirk and a wink.

She rolled her eyes but smiled and stepped up into his space. His eyes widened a little in surprise, but he didn't step back. He looked down at her, brow arched in question.

She wasn't prone to expressions of affection, not yet. Those moments were coming easier as time went by, but she still had to make an effort to ensure she _told_ him what he meant to her. And right now, she couldn't get that note of surprise he'd had in his voice a few minutes ago out of her head. Like she shouldn't have been protective over him. Like he didn't realize he meant enough to her to merit that.

"I got vengeful because you matter to me," she stated bluntly.

His eyes widened further in shock.

"You matter more than anyone else ever has or ever will and I'll be damned if I ever let someone take you from me."

His gaze softened, but that ever-lingering thread of insecurity and doubt hovered just within view.

"I mean it," she promised. "Somebody threatens you and they get dead."

He grinned a little.

"Likewise."

She grinned back and reached up, catching his collar and hauling him down for a quick, crushing kiss. Then she pulled away and smirked. He was watching her in amused surprise. It felt kind of nice to have caught him off guard.

"Let's go before you bleed to death," she stated suddenly, turning for the door.

He snorted and followed without complaint.

* * *

 _Oops, we took a Clintasha turn *shrugs* sorry, not sorry haha. I think sometime in a future story I'm gonna have the do the front flip, break the chair thing at the exact same time because as I imagine this as a movie in my brain (and I do) that would be really cool to see._

 _Anyway, until next time!_


	21. Thrown Against Something

_Hey hey hey! Look at me, still alive and kickin' and hey look! Another Whumptober fic! At this rate, maybe I'll get them all done by THIS october. But seriously, I've had major writers block and I think I'm finally through it so I'm excited. I've even been working on Not So Ancient History lately *GASP* so that's exciting too. I've been blocked on that for like a year. Anyway, enjoy!_

 _Prompt: Thrown against something_

* * *

Clint sat silently in the uncomfortable metal chair, rhythmically bouncing his wrists so that the cuffs keeping him bound rattled against the table. Across from him, an overworked, surly detective for the LAPD stared down doubtfully at a file open between them.

"Your finger prints turned up nothing…and despite what you claim, something tells me your name _isn't_ Don Henley."

Clint blinked and shrugged indifferently.

"Who are you? The truth now, son."

Clint drew in a slow breath and leaned forward, bracing on his elbows. The detective leaned forward as well.

"I'm…gonna need you to let me go."

The detective scoffed and smiled like he was waiting for the punchline of Clint's joke. Clint's expression remained deadly serious and the detective's smile slowly faded.

"There's a man who is going to come here and try to kill me. He'll go through anyone who gets in the way. You really need to let me go."

The detective arched a brow.

"Do I now?" he asked blandly.

Clint rolled his eyes and sat back.

The detective stared at him.

"That's your play? Really, son?"

Clint just gave him a tightlipped smile and checked his watch.

When gunfire erupted out in the main part of the precinct, Clint sighed. The detective jumped up and headed for the door.

"At least uncuff me!" Clint called after him, but the detective was already gone. "Everything always has to be the hard way," he muttered. He hiked a foot up onto the table, dragging the file across the surface until it was within reach of his hands. He pulled the paper clip off and tossed the file aside. A few moments later he was liberated.

He headed for the door, only to retreat back around the table when the door burst open.

"They really need to add a second entry point to these rooms," he muttered, reaching for the chair he'd spent the last hour in. He hefted it up by the chairback and swung it at the first man who got close.

He was good at close combat, but enclosed quarters and this many hostiles was never a simple thing. Even worse, there was only one exit and they were all between him and it.

Simple enough. He'd just have to go _through_ them.

When he and two of the men when tumbling over the interrogation table in a jumble of tangled limbs, Clint amended his plan to perhaps just trying to go _around_ them.

He snapped a boot into someone's nose, slammed his elbow into another man's groin and fought his way to his feet. The steel toe of a boot caught his short ribs as he tried to stand and nearly sent him right back down. He managed to catch himself against the ledge of the two-way mirror instead. He caught a flash of silver in his periphery and barely managed to duck his head under the cover of his arm before the metal chair he'd been occupying not so long ago came crashing down onto him. The glass behind him cracked when one of the legs caught it – thereby saving him from taking the full brunt of the blow – but it didn't break.

Clint latched onto the nearest leg of the chair and gave it a shove, sending the wielder stumbling back. Clint saw him trip over a body on the floor and fall. The table screeched as someone shoved it out of the way and then a man at _least_ twice Clint's size came barreling towards him.

"Shi-" Clint cursed as the bull of a man caught him low in the chest, propelling them both back against the two way mirror. The cracked glass shattered with the impact and Clint fell backwards through the newly created opening. The giant who had tackled him came tumbling after him and the impact with the ground was enough to knock the wind right out of Clint's lungs.

He lay their gasping for a moment, trying to decide if the pain in his back was just from cuts or from actual glass being imbedded in his skin. Next to him, the bull started shifting.

"Move," he coached himself. Then firmer, " _Move_."

He wrapped his hand around a shard of glass and swung it around, neatly slamming it home into the bull's neck. Then he shoved the twitching body away and climbed to his feet.

He looked at the broken mirror and then at the door that would lead out of the viewing room.

Then he glanced up.

A vent.

"So much for only one exit." He smirked and jumped onto the desk by the wall.

He was already replacing the vent cover when the door burst open. He couldn't help his grin as the cursing started down below and everyone ran right back out of the room in hot pursuit.

After that it was easy to slither his way to freedom and as he strolled out of a back exit and retrieved the phone he'd stashed under a nearby bush the night before. He hit the button to turn it on and reached back to feel for the glass he could feel jabbing into him.

He was a little surprised by the size of the first shard he pulled free but just scowled at it and tossed it aside, hitting Phil's number by heart as he started walking away.

" _Coulson."_

"It's done. And you never get to make fun of me for crawling through vents again."

* * *

 _plot holes abound I'm sure hahaha but I'm not gonna look too closely. Hopefully see you again soon!_


	22. Fever

_well hello again. Perhaps I can safely say my writer's block has finally passed. Hope you enjoy this one!_

 _Prompt: Fever_

* * *

Natasha was not, by nature, an easily agitated person.

She wasn't one to fidget and certainly wasn't prone to restless energy.

 _You are control. You are discipline. You are precision._

A familiar mantra, which had been drilled into her since childhood and wouldn't be easily forgotten.

But right now, Natasha paced.

She took the 4 or 5 steps necessary to walk the length of Barton's cot and then pivoted, pacing back the way she'd come. Then again, over and over, back and forth, eyes never leaving Barton's face.

"Coulson's going to kill me, you know," she accused suddenly, feeling inexplicably overwhelmed by the quiet of the room. Thirty-six hours ago, she'd have given anything for Barton to just _stop talking_. "Our first mission without him and you go and do _this."_

 _This_ , being falling suddenly and extremely ill with a nasty stomach virus. He hadn't kept food down since yesterday morning and his fever had started climbing slowly but surely over the last 24 hours.

She stopped pacing abruptly and dropped down to a crouch next to his head.

"He's on his way," she promised. "He'll be here in three hours."

Barton didn't respond, and she hadn't really expected him to. But _damn_ if she hadn't somehow gotten used to him hardly shutting up over the last 8 months.

He groaned suddenly, shifting restlessly. Natasha's eyes widened as his suddenly fluttered open.

"Barton?" she called curiously.

He merely stared silently at the ceiling, not seeming to have heard her. She chewed her lip and reached out with her left hand, drew it back slightly, and then reached out once more, lightly pressing her hand to his forehead.

Two things happened at once.

First, she realized his skin had achieved a whole new level of 'burning up'.

Second, he flinched away.

Then he was suddenly in motion, crab crawling backwards across the cot until he abruptly found the edge and tumbled to the floor.

"Barton!" she called sharply, hoping to snap him out of…whatever this was.

But he didn't seem to hear her, just scrambled across the floor, eyes somehow both wild and calculating all at once.

She saw the weapons spread out on her cot at the same time he did.

She cursed and vaulted away from his cot and towards hers.

He got there first and she abruptly found herself staring down the business end of her own Makarov.

She went still, hands slightly up in surrender.

"Barton," she called carefully. "You in there?"

His eyes twitched, narrowing slightly at the sound of her voice, before returning to normal.

"Where is he?" Barton demanded suddenly.

"Where's who?" she asked carefully.

"Where's Boomer? What did you do with him?"

Natasha hesitated, confused. It had to be a past mission or something similar, she realized.

"He's not here," she played along. "But I'll help you find him."

Barton sneered.

"You're the one that took him," he accused. "Where is he?!"

He shifted a step closer, the gun unwavering in his hand.

"He's safe," she tried. "I'll take you to him."

"You think I trust you, Ruiz? I'm not that stupid."

Natasha barely held back a growl of frustration. Time to change her approach.

"I'm not Ruiz, Barton. It's Romanoff, your partner."

His eyes narrowed again.

"Partner?" he asked incredulously. "I work alone."

"You used to," she allowed. "So did I. But for some reason, it works with us. We make a hell of a team."

"Team?"

"Strike Team Delta," she affirmed with a smirk. "Best success record in SHIELD and we haven't even been doing this a year."

He shook his head slightly, confusion clouding his gaze. But even that small motion seemed to upset his equilibrium and he swayed.

She stepped forward instinctively to help him, but he twitched the gun in warning and reached for the wall, using it to steady himself.

"What did you do to me?" he demanded.

She watched him swallow thickly, looking suddenly green. If he had anything left to throw up, she was sure it would be coming at any moment.

"You're sick, Barton. Stomach bug. You've got a fever."

"Fever…" he repeated doubtfully.

He swallowed again, head bowing a little and eyes drifting closed.

Natasha moved, stripping the gun from his hand and batting away his clumsy hand-to-hand attack.

"It's me!" she hissed, pinning him chest first against the wall, her mouth close to his ear. "It's _me_ , Barton."

He went still, struggles ceasing.

She watched his forehead drop to the wall with a thump.

"Romanoff?" he wondered blearily.

"Yeah," she assured with a relieved sigh. She slowly released her submission hold on his arm.

"What the hell?" he muttered.

"You were hallucinating," she explained. "You have a fever."

Even though she wasn't touching him anymore, she was sure she could feel the heat of his skin bleeding into the air around him.

"Hallucinating?" He rolled his head on the wall and turned, resting wearily against. There was something like wary panic in his eyes as he stared at her.

"You were looking for someone named Boomer," she reminded.

Relief swept through his gaze and she wondered what it was he'd been afraid he'd revealed. Following quickly on the heels of the relief was a weighted sadness.

"Boomer…" he repeated quietly. There was something in his voice, something that told her that story wasn't a good one. That he hadn't found Boomer in time if he'd found him at all.

"You need to go back to bed," she suggested. "Coulson will be here soon."

"Phil's comin'?" he asked, letting her pull him away from the wall and walk him back to his cot.

He all but collapsed onto it, looking nauseated again.

"He'll be here in three hours," she assured.

"Shit…must be as sick as I feel."

"You are," she whispered, mostly to herself. "Just rest okay?"

He flinched suddenly, batting violently at his chest and then his arms. After a moment he settled and curled onto his side.

"Don' let 'em in. The spider bats will eat your spaghetti…"

And then he was asleep again.

Natasha blinked a few times, not sure what to make of those last words. Shaking her head in confusion, she reached to retrieve the ear thermometer from the first aid kit. A few seconds later she stared at the reading on it.

 _103.4_

She went the bathroom, wet a washcloth with cool water and brought it back to him. She folded it carefully and rested it across his forehead.

And then she paced.

* * *

 _End! :D If you're worried, his fever broke before Coulson even got there and he walked in to find Natasha harrassing Clint about spaghetti loving spider bats._

 _Hopefully more in the next few days!_


	23. Grief

_Hey hey hey, back again in less than 24 hrs ;)_

 _Prompt: Grief_

* * *

Natasha was pretty sure Iowa was legitimately the most boring place she'd ever been.

She wasn't sure why their mark had chosen Des Moines as the place to stash the highly classified intel she'd stolen. But Des Moines was were she chose. So Des Moines is where she and Clint were.

Well, officially it's where _she_ was. They weren't partners anymore, not since everything had changed in Budapest. He wasn't here on official business. Clint was on leave – forced leave after a minor knife wound that had lead to a not so minor surgery. When he'd slid into the passenger seat of the car she'd signed out from the garage and grinned, she hadn't bothered to question it.

Road tripping with him to Iowa had been more fun than a work trip had any right to be. She hadn't realized until overhearing a rather argumentative conversation with Phil over the phone that Clint hadn't exactly gotten permission to check himself out of the infirmary.

He'd been a good little tag-along, though, and had left all the heavy lifting to her. Seemingly content to sleep in while she ran recon and going so far as to take a _bubble bath_ while she was out on mission.

It was all over now, though. She had the intel back and it was time to go home.

So she couldn't for the life of her figure out why Clint kept sneaking oddly heavy glances at her and looking away every time she tried to catch his eye.

"Alright," she put down her fork definitely and arched a stern eyebrow, "what the hell is going on?"

He didn't fake ignorance, instead abruptly met her eyes and she was taken aback by the sincerity and hesitancy in his gaze.

"Will you come somewhere with me?" he asked, a quiet vulnerability in his voice that sounded foreign to her ears.

"Of course," she agreed immediately. She'd go anywhere with him, follow him anywhere, even into hell if he asked her to.

He nodded, but didn't look like her answer had lifted any of whatever weight he was carrying. Instead he just returned to his food, eating quietly. After a moment of hesitation, she did the same.

Twenty minutes later they were back in the car with Clint at the wheel.

Two hours later they passed a road sign.

" _Waverly Welcomes You"_

She glanced at him, but his gaze was fixed on the road. She watched his gaze stray briefly to a McDonalds, but then he snapped his eyes forward again.

When they eventually parked in front of the old, broken down house, she wasn't sure what to think.

There was a tension in Clint's posture now as he stared through the windshield.

Natasha chewed her lip in concern but then turned her focus to the house as well.

The porch was half rotted, the screen door had two broken hinges and the screen was ripped. The paint on the house had faded and peeled away years ago and the glass of the windows had all been broken at some point. Maybe kids throwing rocks, maybe something more deliberate. She leaned forward and glanced around, catching sight of a barn further down the gravel driveaway.

She didn't push him, didn't prod for explanation. She just waited to see what he would do.

Eventually he blinked and drew in a deliberate breath. He looked over at her and offered a half grin.

"Come on," he beckoned, turning off the car and climbing out.

She followed willingly, walking to the front of the car to stand with him and stare at the house again.

"I used to sleep in that barn," he said suddenly, nodding down the driveway. "In the rafters."

Natasha pulled her brow together in confusion and waited for more.

"It was better than sleeping in the house…he couldn't get to me in the barn."

Natasha snapped her eyes to his profile.

"Clint…" she breathed, realizing with sudden clarity where they were.

"Come on," he said again, grabbing her hand leading her to the house.

They had to step carefully up the steps, avoiding places where the wood was rotted and weak. The screen door came off in Clint's hands and he grimaced guiltily, leaning it against the side of the house. Natasha's gaze had fixated on the plaque next to the door.

 _Waverly Home for Boys_

She sought out his hand again, gripping it tightly in silent support.

He offered her a grin in response and then reached for the door. It was stuck. But Clint put his shoulder into it and the frame broke under the assault. Together they crossed the threshold into the place that she knew lived in Clint's nightmares.

He stopped in the entry, breath suddenly unsteady. She squeezed his hand in hers and he seemed to wrestle himself back under control.

"He's dead now," Clint stated abruptly. "Phil killed him."

Natasha stared at him in shock.

"Still feel like he's gonna come around the corner though…" When Clint shivered, Natasha wondered what old nightmares were coming back to him.

Clint drew in a breath and pulled her towards a room to the left. It looked like it might have been a living room once. Clint let go of her hand and dropped to a crouch in the middle of the room, fingers of his left hand reaching out to ghost across the wooden floor. His eyes closed and something like pain drifted across his expression.

"It was right here," he said quietly. "This is where I was when I knew I was done. That I would run away."

Natasha stayed silent. She wanted details, but at the same time she didn't want to know. She didn't want the helpless anger that would follow, the knowledge that he had suffered and she couldn't go back and stop it.

Clint went on though, maybe needing to put words to it, maybe seeking some sort of closure.

"He laid my back open with the buckle end of a belt," he revealed. "I still have those scars. You've seen them."

She nodded. She had. She had traced them with her fingers, wondering who had dared put such marks on him. Wishing she could make them regret it.

"I wanted to die," he whispered. "It was that bad."

Natasha's throat tightened. She knew what that felt like. She'd felt it too. The Red Room had its own set of cruelties.

"But you know me," he went on with a chuckle. "I don't go down easy."

Now she smiled because that was so painfully, beautifully true.

"I was laying right here, bleeding, couldn't even stand up, much less walk, and I knew it was the last time he'd ever hurt me."

Clint pulled his hand away from the floor and stood, backing away from the spot and towards her. She watched him closely, wanting to reach out, but hesitant to do so. All he'd ever felt in this house was pain, that echo would be in his bones. The last thing she wanted was for him to flinch away from her.

He moved past her to the stairs and carefully started up them. Natasha could do nothing but follow.

They found themselves standing in the doorway to a bunkroom. There were six bunk beds crammed into the room, but Clint hadn't stepped over the threshold.

"Phil killed him," Clint whispered again, but she wasn't sure it was for her benefit. The words seemed to bolster him because after taking a breath he stepped into the room.

"This was your room?" she asked quietly.

He nodded, drifting over to a set of bunks directly across from the door. He crouched, lightly resting his hand on the dusty, stained mattress. Slowly, she watched his hand clench into a fist.

She wanted to ask. She wanted to know what Jacobs had done to him in that bed. But she didn't. This was Clint's trip down memory lane. Clint's closure. She would take whatever he shared but wouldn't demand more than he was willing to offer.

"It only happened a couple of times," he revealed, head down and eyes closed. "Then I broke his nose. I slept in the barn after that. He could beat my ass all day long, but this…this he only ever did when the darkness hid him."

She wanted to murder Phillip Jacobs. She wanted to feel his blood on her hands.

"Phil killed him," she reminded softly. And she would thank him for it when they got home.

The words seemed to give him the strength to lift his head and he looked up, at the bed above his.

"Barney slept there. He was _right there_ , every time."

Tension tightened in his posture, something coiled and full of pain.

 _Barney_ _Barton_.

Barney was still out there. One day, she'd find him, and she'd make him bleed for all the pain he'd caused.

Clint rose abruptly and backed away, retreating from the room quickly. She followed him down the stairs and out onto the porch where he jumped down the few rotted stairs and moved out into the driveway, head tossed back as he let the sun beat down on him and just breathed.

"I hated this place so much," he said eventually.

"Then why are we here?" she asked carefully.

"Because I want you to know me. And you can hear a story all day long, but _seeing it_? That's knowing it."

"I don't need to see this, Clint. We can go, right now, and leave this all behind."

He must have heard the horror in her voice because he turned, smiling warmly.

"I know. I needed to do this for me, Tasha. I needed to face it and put it to bed for good." She nodded carefully in response and he stepped towards her, holding out a hand. "I'm glad you're here though."

She smiled warmly and took the hand he offered. Immediately he pulled her towards the barn.

Once inside, she looked up at the high rafters.

"You climbed up there as a kid?" she wondered in awe.

"Surprised?" he asked with a laugh.

She looked back at him and grinned.

"Not really," she admitted. "Looks rotted now."

"Yeah," he agreed, wrapping an arm around a post and swinging his body around it so he faced her again. "Come somewhere with me?"

"I thought I already did that," she replied with a teasing smirk.

"Somewhere different," he explained. "Somewhere better."

She nodded.

"Okay."

The warmth in his responding smile seeped into her bones.

* * *

Her heart broke a little when she watched him kneel in front of a set of matching headstones, purposefully pulling up some weeds and tossing them aside.

 _Clifford Henry Barton_

 _Katherine Marie Barton_

He skated his hand across the top of his father's headstone and sighed.

"I was only six," he told her. "But I remember them _perfectly_." His voice caught, but he cleared his throat and when he went on, his tone was stronger. "That memory of mine," he chuckled without much actual humor, "blessing and a curse."

She thought being able to remember his parents fell in the 'blessing' category. But when she thought of the pain on his face when he walked her through that house…that was the curse.

She didn't even realize she had decided to speak when the words just started flowing.

"I don't remember mine," she sighed. "I wish I did sometimes."

He shifted, looking up at her and held out a hand. When she took it, he pulled her down to sit next to him.

"I don't even know where they were buried… _if_ they were buried," she admitted.

His eyes sparked with empathy and this time it was his hands squeezing _hers_.

"I've wondered about them," she went on. "Did she have red hair? Did he have green eyes? Did he make her laugh? Was she stubborn?" she drew in a shaky breath and smiled sadly at him. She tilted her head towards the head stones. "Tell me about them?"

Clint smiled back.

"She had blonde hair and blue eyes. She was small, but strong. Tongue like a whip…" his gaze turned reflective. "She was warm and safe. When she held me, I knew the world would have to get through her to get to me. She made amazing chocolate chip cookies and loved to laugh. My dad had a sense of humor for miles. He loved to put us in stitches. He was tall, broad, brown hair, brown eyes…like Barney. He was athletic. Played baseball in high school and college. Got a minors offer once, but my mom was pregnant with Barney and…and he didn't want to miss a thing." He swallowed thickly. "I used to find him watching old tapes sometimes, watching his college games. I still wonder if he regretted turning them down."

He sighed deeply and his gaze came back to the present.

"I was happy and I was loved…and however brief it was, a lot of people don't get that lucky."

He gave her a look full of warmth and empathy and adoration. They both knew she had never gotten that lucky. Not as a kid. Now, though? Now maybe her luck had turned.

"But eventually Phil found me and then I found _you_ …so maybe," he shrugged a little. "Maybe it was all worth it in the end."

Her heart broke all over again. She didn't feel worth it. She didn't feel like she could ever be worth a lifetime of pain.

But then…finding _him_? Hadn't that made the Red Room worth it? She knew, without a doubt, that she would go through it all again if it meant being right here with him.

"Let's go home," he suggested quietly, holding out a hand again.

But this time, she didn't take it.

"Can I just…I want to tell them something." She nodded at the headstones.

The way he looked at her then…she couldn't describe it. And when he nodded his acceptance, the smile he wore was nothing but warm.

He climbed to standing and moved back to the path where he waited.

Natasha took a shaky breath and looked down at the two names carved in granite.

"His childhood died right here with you," she whispered. "But he came out stronger," she assured. "He's fierce, and he's brave. He's loyal and smart…and he…he knows how to love better than anyone I've ever known. I have a feeling you taught him that." She touched the nearest stone, his mother's. "So thank you," she whispered. "And I swear to you…I'll do whatever it takes to be worth all the pain. One day, I'll be worth it," she promised.

Then she stood and turned away, fixing her eyes on Clint as she walked towards him.

Together, they walked out of the cemetery, back to the car, and drove out of town. Clint was quiet, eyes fixed on the scenery as she drove. There was a sadness in the air around him, but it slowly dissipated the further away they got.

His childhood had died in Waverly, at an intersection with a run red light and a drunk driver. Phillip Jacobs had stolen it with violence and cruelty. Her heart grieved for that little boy who had lost so much so fast. He hadn't been done losing things either, she knew.

But she glanced over at him in the passenger seat now, at the man he became.

And she knew he'd found things too.

He had said he wanted her to know him. But she hadn't needed this for that. She knew his heart. She knew his soul. But he had trusted her with something today. He'd let her see him, _really_ see him, as he walked her through the memories. He had let her see the childhood fear, the pain, the vulnerability. He'd let her see the little boy the world had tried to break, the little boy Barney Barton had succeeded in breaking years later. A little boy he usually kept protected behind walls of steel now where no one and nothing could ever hurt him again.

He'd trusted her with that little boy.

She reached over and grabbed his hand, vowing to herself that she would find a way to trust him with the little girl she kept just as fiercely protected. _One day_ , she promised, _soon._

"You're worth it, you know," she whispered. Worth the Red Room, worth the pain. Worth it all.

His answering grin lit up the car, and though his response might seem light and flippant, she could hear the sincerity and warmth in his voice.

"Likewise."

* * *

 _I was kind of dreading this one because I've done CLint's grief over Phil and even his grief over his parents before so I floundered with where to take this. My beta and friends Kylen suggested Clint taking Nat to 'meet' his parents. I took it further. This story is about grief, but a larger grief than just lost parents. Grief for a lost childhood, really. Grief for a little boy that suffered. And hints at grief for a little girl that suffered just as much, that lost her childhood too. But that story will come in its own fic. This is meant to take place right before "Germany" and sometime after "Budapest"._

 _Hope you enjoyed it._

 _More soon!_


	24. Drowning

_Heyyy *waves bashfully* so it's been a while...again. But I'm doing better at finding balance with my time so I have a chance to write again. Maybe I'll get these whumptober fics done before THIS October haha. One can only hope. Barley edited - be forgiving lol._

 _Prompt: Drowning_

* * *

Clint was not overly fond of boats.

They were too isolated. The only way to escape one was swimming, _another_ boat, or, if you were well financed, a helicopter. Though climbing a flexible ladder up to a chopper while careening through the open air was pretty high on his "things Clint is not fond of" list. Having the ladder detach while he was climbing once had soured him on that adrenaline high experience forever.

But even worse than boats?

Being on a boat, on his knees with a gun to his temple and his hands ziptied in front of him.

Worse than that?

Being on a boat, on his knees with a gun to his temple and his hands ziptied in front of him while Natasha was shocked into unconsciousness by a stun gun and then carelessly tossed overboard.

Hate. Clint definitely _hated_ boats.

Some internal clock started ticking away in his head, timing how long she'd been in the water, even as cut his gaze around, assessing his situation and pulling together a crazy, definitely dangerous, hardly solid plan that would give Phil a coronary just to hear about later.

He exploded up slamming his ziptied hands into the gun at his temple. The man holding it fired instinctively and the sound was enough to send pain spiking through Clint's left ear. But the bullet bit harmlessly into the deck instead of his temple, so he couldn't complain.

He latched onto the man's wrist and pulled his body up, hooking a knee around his neck and using his body weight to sharply twist them both the ground. He stripped the gun out of the now unconscious, or maybe dead, guys' hand and started firing at anything in his path that was breathing and stupid enough not to move out of his way.

He tossed the gun ahead of him into the water, put a boot on the rail and jumped. In the precious seconds he had before he hit the water, he extended his arms and then slammed his bound wrists back against his torso, pulling his wrists apart as he did. The ziptie couldn't stand up to the assault and snapped.

Then Clint was underwater. He didn't dare resurface, if they weren't firing after him yet, they would be soon. It would take a few seconds for them to turn the boat and come back, but he knew he had to move quickly. The water here was a startlingly clear blue. It would be hard to hide unless he got some distance. He kicked deeper, swimming back the way they'd come, blinking away the initial sting in his eyes from the water as he searched for his partner.

 _There_.

She looked unearthly, limbs loose and too still, her long hair floating around her in an eerie red halo.

Clint made it to her in seconds, wrapped an arm around her and propelled them up. He broke through the surface to the sound of gunfire a ways away. Confused and gasping, he instinctively shielded Natasha even as he turned towards the sound.

The yacht they'd fled from was at least a hundred feet away, the men on board firing wildly at a circling speedboat. The boat driver was skilled, though, and deftly cut through the water while a second man returned fire with skillful precision.

Clint turned his attention back to Natasha, shifting her to the best position for in-water resuscitation. Not ideal, but it wasn't like he was overflowing with options.

He tuned out the gunfire while he worked, all those survival courses Phil had forced him to take suddenly not seeming quite as much of a waste of time as he'd complained at the time. Distantly, he registered the gunfire stop and the sound of an engine approaching.

He heard a familiar voice call his name just as Natasha convulsed and coughed in his arms.

"There you go," he coached. "Get it all out." He pushed her wet hair off her face and treaded water to support them both while her body rid itself of the water it had unwillingly taken in.

The coughing stopped but she remained limp in his arms.

"Natasha?" he called a bit breathlessly, the surge of adrenaline starting to fade and leave him lightheaded.

"Clint?" Phil's barely contained concern drew his attention to the idling speed boat.

"She took in water. I got her to cough it out, but there might be more," Clint informed as he swam the few feet separating them from the boat, pulling Natasha along next to him. He lifted Natasha up into Phil's waiting hands. Then he pushed while Phil pulled and a moment later Natasha was in the boat, the driver carefully laying her out on the back cushions.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Clint asked as he reached up to take Phil's reoffered hand.

"I was tailing you, you know that." Phil replied, locking his hand around Clint's wrist.

"You were supposed to be following our gps from a few clicks back. You got here too fast for that," Clint challenged.

The driver said something that Clint missed while he let Phil haul him out of the water and over the edge of the boat.

"How close _were_ you?"Clint demanded, sinking to the floor next to the cushions Natasha was laid out on.

"Reasonably far to maintain our cover," Phil insisted primly, reaching to check Natasha's pulse.

"Yeah right. After all the shit you give me about protocol?" Clint scolded, shaking his head in mocking rebuke.

"She's breathing. Pulse is strong," Phil assured first, then, "And somebody told me once that your gut will keep you alive a hell of a lot longer than protocols."

Clint huffed a chuckle, recognizing one of the many arguments he'd made against protocols back in his early training days. He opened his mouth to make a comment about his corrupting influence, but Phil's sudden exclamation cut him off.

"Clint! What the hell?!"

"What?" he asked defensively. He hadn't done anything wrong in the last 15 seconds, not even in the last 15 minutes.

"Is that blood?" Phil demanded, pointing accusingly at something on the deck next to Clint.

Clint looked down.

"Huh…" he huffed in confusion, staring at the growing puddle of red tinged water spreading out from where he sat.

The pain hit then, and he pressed a hand to his back, seeking the source.

"Shit, you're hit," Phil announced.

There was a sudden flurry of movement around him – all of which he was reasonably sure Phil was responsible for – but Clint just stared down at the smear of bright red on his hand in confusion. The light headedness returned with a vengeance and he swayed where he sat.

"I had to get to her," he stated blearily. Bullets flying hadn't mattered and never would when her life was on the line. When an opening to escape hadn't been there, he'd made one. That type of shit always had consequences.

"Clint, look at me," Phil instructed.

But instead, Clint felt his eyes slide closed.

"Ch'k 'T'sha."

That was important. Natasha had taken in water. Phil needed to check on her.

"Clint? CLINT!"

But he was already fading.

* * *

Clint woke up with a start, limbs shifting defensively and instinctively lashing out at the presence he sensed above him.

"Whoa, whoa, it's me, kid."

Clint stilled.

"Phil…" he breathed, blinking blearily at the dim room and watching Phil's face come into focus next to him. Another thought struck, "Natasha?"

"She's fine. Over there." Phil nodded towards the other bed in the small infirmary room. "They're monitoring her closely for fluid build up, but she seems to be fine. Better than you. Can you even manage a mission without getting shot? Seems impossible."

"I didn't get shot in Casablanca last year."

Phil stared at him.

"Clint, you got stabbed and thrown out of a moving vehicle. You had road rash from your neck to your ass."

Clint quirked his lips.

"But didn't get _shot_."

Phil shook his head in exasperation – _fond_ exasperation though, so Clint wasn't too worried about it.

"Let's work on improving that track record, huh? I've had my fill of you passing out in my arms to last a life time." The words were gruff and sharp, but the undercurrent of latent worry and fear was impossible to miss.

Clint met Phil's eyes.

"Sorry I scared you," he offered sincerely. "If it makes you feel better, I didn't even know I'd been shot."

"It doesn't, shockingly enough," Phil replied dryly.

Clint huffed a slight chuckle and looked across the room to where Natasha slept peacefully.

"She's gonna be fine," Phil assured quietly. "You got to her in time."

Clint nodded, feeling a knot loosen in his chest. His eyelids drooped. Somehow after being awake for a mere three minutes he already felt exhausted. Phil's hand rested on his shoulder.

"Sleep, Clint. I'll keep watch."

Clint slept.

* * *

 _Love it? Hate it? Indifferent? There are only 7 left, so if I crack down, I hope to finish most of them by the end of the month and before october for sure! :D Later Gators!_


	25. Gagged

_Hey hey hey! So I actually have several of these done and will post one a day until I'm done with last years Whumptober prompts! Woohoo! Then I'm gonna get a jump start on writing this years so that I can be ahead of the curve and hopefully not take a year to finish them this time HAHA. Anyway, enjoy!_

 _Prompt: Gagged_

* * *

Clint had to hand it to them. While duct tape was significantly more comfortable – until removal at least – than a good ol' fashioned cloth gag, it was a hell of a lot more effective at achieving actual silence. He had plenty of experience with both, because he'd had just that kind of life, so he felt like a relative authority on the matter.

With a cloth gag, he could talk around it. It wasn't exactly _clear,_ more like half words relying on tone of voice. But at least he could get his point across, mostly.

With duct tape, he was relegated to hums of various intensity. And really, if you wanted someone to honest to God _shut up_ , then the tape was the way to go. It hurt like a bitch to take off though.

Apparently he'd annoyed his captors enough that 'honest to God shut up' was what they were going for, because he found himself with a nice strip of duct tape across his mouth. Mere minutes ago he'd been doing his level best to talk these guys into killing their boss, or each other – he wasn't picky.

He didn't try to say anything else because, honestly, no matter who it was coming from _humming_ at people just didn't carry a lot of weight. Instead, he just used his gaze to mock them as best he could. A sarcastic eyebrow twitch here, a slight eyeroll there, a dose of a 'are you seriously this stupid' glare just for shits and giggles.

It wasn't as effective as, say, cutting them to pieces with words, but at least it kept him entertained. It also kept _them_ distracted while he worked to cut through his ropes with a shard of glass he'd grabbed when they carelessly threw him to the floor upon arrival. He felt bad for whoever had been here last. If they'd been the reason for the shattered glass on the floor, it must not have a been a pleasant stay. But one man's terror filled captivity was another man's path to freedom, so Clint sent up a hope for the man's survival and took the opportunity presented to him.

Cutting blind with a crooked shard of glass wasn't a precision skill. It was more of a 'hope to hell you didn't slit your wrist' kind of deal. So far, he'd managed to keep the glass mostly cutting the rope and not his skin, and he was more thankful than he'd ever been for the hard calluses built on his fingers from his bow string.

"Shouldn't the boss be here by now?" one of his captors muttered.

The other shrugged nervously.

"I thought you talked to him," the first accused.

"I thought _you_ did!"

Inexplicably, they both looked back at Clint.

He shifted his gaze back and forth between them and then arched his eyebrow in a distinct 'I told you so' gesture.

The two men looked back at each other and then in a blink, both drew their guns, shouting accusations.

Clint watched, blinking in vague surprise when they proceeded to shoot each other and fall to the ground.

He looked back and forth between the bodies, not quite sure how he'd managed to actually pull that off. He didn't dwell on it long, though, before focusing back on the rope keeping him bound. A few moments later, and quite a few knicks to his hands and wrists, he was free.

He yanked the tape off in one fluid motion.

"Son of a _bitch!_ " he hissed, feeling to make sure he hadn't, in fact, ripped his lips off like it felt. He hadn't.

"Well, fellas, it's been a real. Your mutual distrust and hatred made this pretty easy all things considered," he commented to the men on the ground as he retrieved his weapons and headed for the door.

* * *

 _Hope you enjoyed this one! It was fun!_


	26. Outnumbered

_As promised! Look for another one tomorrow!_

 _Prompt: Outnumbered_

* * *

"Clint, I need you to hear me."

 _Phil._

Clint blinked, looking around. He was only a little started to see himself standing on the ledge of the base roof. He shivered, looking up at the dark skies and the driving rain. Wind whipped around him, and he wavered.

"Come on, Barton, don't do this."

That was Dan. He always reverted to 'Barton' when he was really worried. Clint wasn't sure why he sounded so worried. Sure, Clint was standing on the ledge of the roof in a rain storm, but his balance was the best there was. He wouldn't fall.

As if to mock him, the wind gusted again and he had to take a step to keep his balance.

Nature was such a little bitch sometimes.

"Can he hear us?"

 _Todd…_

"Don't you dare check out on us, kid."

Jesus, everyone was acting like he was about to jump. He wasn't going to jump. He wasn't even going to fall. He'd walked a damned tight rope in the circus and only ever fallen once during practice.

"Is she there yet?" Dan demanded. Then in a shout, "Well tell her to move her ass!"

"Clint, listen to me. You've gotta keep fighting. Don't ever stop fighting."

Clint looked around, searching for Phil. His handler sounded worried and a little pissed off. He wanted to tell Phil that of course he wouldn't stop. That was the deal they'd made, after all.

" _If you'll fight, I'll fight with you."_

But what the hell was he supposed to be fighting. He was just standing here in the damn rain.

"Hang in there, kid, she's almost there," Todd said.

 _Who?_

"Hey! Clint! Hey! Open your eyes!" Natasha's voice suddenly washed over him, louder than the others had been.

He frowned, his eyes _were_ open.

A hand tapped firmly against his face, but when he turned his head there was no one there.

Suddenly everybody was talking. Voices tangled together and Clint shook his head, trying to separate them. He couldn't, instead they got louder.

Then one voice rang out clearly, even though it was nothing more than a whisper.

"Wake up, Clint."

 _Phil._

Something sharp slammed into his chest and pain seized him.

"Wake up!" Phil demanded again, more firmly but with no less affection wrapped in the words.

"Come on, kid!" Todd added.

"Off your ass, Barton!" Dan put in.

"Clint, please…" Natasha whispered.

Suddenly there was fire in his blood and he heard them all again, talking over each other and together. Asking, _demanding_ , that he wake up.

He wasn't even sleeping, but with all of them ganging up on him, he figured he might as well humor them.

He looked up at the dark sky, blinking into the rain.

And told himself firmly,

 _Wake up._

Clint jackknifed, sucking in a sharp, gasping breath, eyes slamming open.

Strong hands caught his shoulders, keeping him from vaulting to his feet. He almost lashed out. Might have, if his arms didn't feel like they were made of lead.

"Breathe! It's me! It's just me," Natasha's voice whispered over him, low and urgent.

He reached out, forcing his heavy arms to move and tangled a hand in the long sleeve of her catsuit.

"W-what happened?" he demanded roughly, wiping his other hand across his face, expecting to feel the wetness of rain. But finding nothing but a slight glistening of sweat. He frowned down at his hand.

"You were drugged. Knocked you on your ass. Dan talked me through countering it then I hit you with adrenaline."

"Dan?" Clint asked in confusion, looking around, expecting the doctor to be standing somewhere nearby.

"On the comm, Clint," Natasha explained carefully.

"The comm?" he repeated blankly, before suddenly becoming acutely aware of the hard piece of plastic in his ear.

" _You with us, kid?"_ Todd's voice asked carefully.

" _Romanoff, what's his heartrate like?"_ Dan cut in.

"Fast," Natasha answered and Clint belatedly realized her fingers were on his wrist.

Shit, whatever they'd hit him with must have been strong.

" _The adrenaline will do that,"_ Dan explained. _"Keep an eye on him."_

"You know I will," Natasha promised, her hands now steady on his biceps.

That accounted for most of the voices he'd been hearing in whatever weird delusional, dream state he'd been in. But there was still…

" _Talk to me, Clint."_

Phil.

Clint let out a breath, feeling some of the residual panic and confusion fade away.

"What the hell, Phil?"

" _Yeah, you're telling me,"_ Phil replied with a chuckle. _"You okay?"_

Clint took mental stock. He felt antsy and a bit charged up, but that was the adrenaline. A little foggy, which was probably the result of whatever he'd been dosed with. Still confused though.

"Wanna tell me why I have the whole peanut gallery chattering in my ear?" he asked, nodding at Natasha when she wordlessly asked if he was ready to stand up.

With her steadying him, he somehow made it to his feet without collapsing back down. He let her pull his arm over her shoulder, because he wasn't honestly sure he wouldn't fall the moment he tried to take a step.

" _They brought me lunch to the ops room and heard you go down. They've been fluttering around like worried mother hens ever since."_

" _Hey! Who's fluttering? You're the one that practically overturned the ops table and dropped your lunch on the floor!"_ Todd protested.

" _Who the hell talked her through neutralizing the drug? What would you have done if I wasn't here? Googled it?"_ Dan argued.

Clint grinned, tuning out the ensuing bickering and focusing on Natasha at his side. He dropped his forehead to rest against her temple wearily.

"I got here as fast as I could, but all the bad guys decided to get in my way," Natasha explained, shifting a little to support him better.

"I'm guessing you made them regret it?"

"Bet your ass," she assured. "You okay?" she asked quietly.

"I'm dizzy and strangely focused and energized and tired all at once."

"Well, let's get out of here then you can sleep it off, or spar it off."

Clint grinned wickedly.

"I can think of something _else_ we can do to work it out of my system."

" _HEY! Keep it PG! You're on mission, you degenerates!"_ Todd mockingly scolded over the line.

Clint pulled his head back and met Natasha's eyes. She grinned and nodded.

"We'll check in when we get back to the safe house. Widow and Hawk out."

They pulled out their ear pieces out and Natasha took them both, tucking them away in a hidden pocket on her suit.

"Ah…silence," Clint said, relieved.

Natasha chuckled and started toward the door, pulling him along with her.

"Come on, Phil will stress out the entire time we're offline."

"Worth it," Clint decided. "The three of them chattering in my head was an experience I'd be happy to never repeat."

"Feeling a little outnumbered?" she guessed with a grin.

"Yeah, _in my own head_ , how does that even happen?"

Natasha patted a hand against his stomach in mock sympathy.

"Poor, drugged, little baby…"

"Do _you_ come with a mute switch?"

This time a finger jabbed sharply into his stomach but all it made him do was laugh.

* * *

 _more tomorrow! :)_


	27. Surrender

_My friend Kylen gave me the idea for where to take this one! Forgive the shortness!_

 _Prompt: Surrender_

* * *

"Stop, or he dies."

Phil stalled out in his sprint, shifting to space his feet and bring his gun up to bear.

"Let him go," Phil demanded, voice pitched low and dangerous.

"So you then have a clear shot? I don't think so," the man replied with a dark chuckle. He shifted, tightening his hand around Clint's neck and pressing his own gun harder into his temple. Clint grimaced, face strained as his right hand pulled at the one wrapped around his throat.

Phil's eyes briefly tracked the smear of blood tracking down the side of Clint's face and then drifted to the odd set of his left shoulder.

"This is how this is gonna go," the man stated firmly. "You're gonna put your gun down, and lay down on your stomach, fingers laced behind your head. I'm gonna walk out of here and if I'm feeling charitable, I won't kill your little friend here when I get to the parking lot."

"See, that really doesn't work for me," Phil replied coldly. "You're not walking out of here with him."

"Then I guess this is a good old-fashioned stand-off." The man shifted his grip on Clint's neck and Phil watched the corners of his agent's eyes tighten in fresh pain. But at the same time, something in his previously clouded in his gaze seemed to clear. Then suddenly, Phil wasn't alone in the situation anymore. Clint was back in play. The archer's blue-gray eyes shifted to meet Phil's.

"You're going to let him go, and then walk away," Phil instructed the other man firmly.

"You'll shoot me as soon as he's clear. No, I think I'll just take him with me."

The man started backing towards the door, the hand on Clint's throat tightening drastically.

Phil heard Clint choke on air and then start trying to dig his fingers under the other man's.

He couldn't breathe, Phil realized.

"Six minutes, twenty-six seconds." As soon as the words left Phil's mouth, Clint stilled.

"What?" the other man asked, confused.

"That's plenty of time for this," Phil went on, eyes on the man, but words meant for Clint.

"What are you talking about?" the man snapped.

"Don't worry about it," Phil replied easily. He gauged the distance between the man and the door warily.

"You follow us, I'll kill him."

Phil watched Clint's right hand slowly drop, reaching for the hilt of the combat knife he kept strapped to his hip.

"You kill him, I kill you. I don't think that's the way you want this to go."

The man had reached the door. Phil met Clint's eyes, and the agent arched an eyebrow impatiently. Phil barely fought down a grin.

The man pressed back against the bar on the door.

"Wait!" Phil called, suddenly holding his hands out in surrender. "Just wait."

"That's more like it," the man crowed. "Put your gun on the ground _slowly._ "

"Okay, okay…I'm putting it down. Just let him go."

Phil crouched, placing the gun carefully on the asphalt, but his eyes stayed trained on Clint.

He was ready when Clint moved.

The knife cleared the sheath and then Clint slammed it back into the man's thigh.

The man screamed, instinctively shifting back and away from the new threat. Clint twisted, ducking down as the man's gun fired. Phil had his gun up and fired in the same breath.

The man fell backwards through the door and Clint staggered the opposite direction, falling ungracefully to his ass.

"Clint?" Phil scrambled forward to his knees next to the downed agent.

"F'ckin' hell!" Clint gasped, lightly touching his neck with his right hand. Phil could already see deep bruises forming.

"Don't talk. We need to get you to a hospital." Phil hooked a shoulder under Clint's right arm and stood, pulling Clint with him.

"G'damn grip like iron," Clint rasped out.

"I said stop talking," Phil scolded.

"My knife."

Phil let out a deep sigh and walked them both back to the body. He propped Clint against the wall and bent to retrieve the knife. He wiped the blood off on the man's clothes and handed the blade back to Clint hilt first.

"Can we go now?" Phil asked. "Before your throat starts swelling and you can't breathe again?"

"So demanding."

"Stop. Talking." Phil pulled Clint's arm over his shoulder again. "You sound like a chain smoker that's been gargling glass. He might have damaged your vocal chords. So keep quiet until we get you checked out."

"G'damn mother hen," Clint muttered lowly.

"I take it back. Keep talking. Maybe damaged vocal chords will get me a few days of _silence_."

Clint muttered something else, but it was too low and rasping for Phil to make out.

Yeah, a few days of forced silence was sounding pretty good.

* * *

 _This one made me chuckle. Hope you enjoyed it!_


	28. Cathartic Shower or Bath

_Prompt: Cathartic Shower/Bath_

* * *

Natasha dropped her bag wearily onto her bed, letting out a slow breath of relief to finally be _home_. Even if home was a bunk room in a SHIELD base, it was still hers. She sat, carefully leaning to unlace her boots. Her ribs and back protested an attempt to pull them off, so she straightened and used her toes to push the boots off each foot instead.

A shower, that's what she really needed. Or maybe a bath. Whoever had designed the private quarters at SHIELD had at least recognized that sometimes a good soak was necessary after a brutal mission or training session when your muscles were threatening to mutiny. They'd outfitted each unit with a shower/tub combo.

She pushed up to her feet, reaching for her phone.

She wanted to see Clint. She'd been leaving as he came back from his own mission. He'd been on his way to medical with a bloody bandage taped to his shoulder. They'd passed in the hangar bay with nothing but a slight touch of fingers, a greeting and farewell all rolled into one.

She swiped her finger across the phone and tapped the phone icon. She found his name on her recent calls log and was just about to touch it when a light knock came at her door. She smiled. Only two people in this base would come visit her in her quarters and she'd seen Coulson when she landed.

"Come in," she called over her shoulder, keeping her back to the door as she heard the lock disengage. She heard the door open and then close.

"Hey," he greeted quietly.

"Hey," she replied, leaning to place her phone back on the bedside table. She thought about the bruises on her face, the split lip, and hesitated before turning. He'd have to see it all eventually, better to get it over with. She tucked her hands in her back pockets and turned to face him, smiling softly. "You sticking around a while?"

His expression didn't change but for a slight narrowing of his eyes. He didn't rush over and starting treating her like she was made of glass, he just remained leaning back against the door, arms crossed over his chest. She adored him for it.

"Dan's clearing me tomorrow. I caught the Hernandez Op."

Natasha nodded, stamping out her disappointment. Her phone vibrated and she turned away, glancing down at the screen. A text from Coulson, instructions to rest up and visit medical in the morning.

Anyone else and she might have pulled away from the sudden hand on her shoulder. But she'd sensed Clint's approach, no matter how silent it was, and she leaned into the hand instead. He gently pulled at her, forcing her to turn back and face him.

She didn't fight it, tilting her head up to meet his eyes.

His left hand stayed steady on her shoulder, but his right drifted up to cup the side of her face, thumb ghosting over the split lip and bruised skin around her mouth.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Had worse," she replied with a slight grin.

His lips quirked in response and his left hand shifted, pushing her hair back off her shoulder and exposing the dark, angry finger shaped bruises at the base of her neck.

"I'm okay," she assured softly.

He nodded, but didn't reply.

"I just want a long, hot bath," she added tiredly.

He nodded again.

"I can help with that," he decided, but then hesitated. "If you want me to go, if you want to be alone, just say the word. I'd get it."

She let out a slow breath, focusing on the feeling of his hands, rough with callouses but gentle on her face and against the bruises on her neck. There was a time when she'd want nothing more than to be alone to lick her wounds and relax. But that time had ended months ago, weeks before Vietnam and she'd admitted to herself what Clint Barton had come to mean to her. She'd craved his presence for a long time before that mission had changed everything.

"Stay," she stated quietly.

He nodded, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead before stepping back and striding into the bathroom. She heard the tub faucet turn on a moment later and smiled.

* * *

Clint tossed a fresh folded towel onto the closed toilet seat and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. He watched Natasha settle in deeper into he water, eyes closed as she leaned her head back against the folded hand towel he'd tucked behind her neck.

"Want me to go get you some food?" he asked.

"What I want you to do is get your ass over here and enjoy this bath with me," she replied without bothering to open her eyes.

"Natasha…" Clint hedged. With as battered and tired as she was, hell even if she _wasn't_ beat to hell, he didn't expect anything from her. He didn't want her to think that was why'd come to see her. "I don't want anything from you, I just wanted to see you. To make sure you were okay."

Her eyes opened and she looked at him with a glare of such fond exasperation that he immediately felt ridiculous for his hesitation.

"I know," she assured. "And that's why I want you to get your ass over here. Just to…" something adorably vulnerable and embarrassed slid across her expression, "hold me and I don't know, give me a massage because my back is killing me."

Clint smiled softly and nodded.

"That I can do."

* * *

The tub wasn't made for two people. It was barely made for _one_ person. Luckily, personal space wasn't something either of them worried about in each other's company so even though it was a tight fit, it wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, Natasha quite enjoyed the warmth and solid presence of Clint's body at her back.

She was leaned forward right now, arms wrapped around her knees while he gently worked his fingers over the knots and aches in her back. She turned her head, resting her cheek on her knee when she felt his fingers ghost over a particularly deep bruise on her shoulder blade.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," he said suddenly. Then he quickly added, "Not in a macho, alpha male type way. I know you can take care of yourself. I just…wish I'd been there to watch your back."

She smiled softly, turning in the tub. She accidently elbowed him in the ribs and sloshed quite a bit of water over the side of the tub, but she managed to get around to face him.

"I've had worse," she reminded. "But I get it." She reached out and ran her finger over the neat row of stitches on his shoulder. A stab wound, she'd found out later, halfway into her flight after seeing him in the hangar bay. Not too deep, but a 'the fucker was a bleeder' was how he'd put it. "And I know the feeling."

"I've had worse too," he pointed out with a quirk of his lips.

Her eyes drifted to the old, puckered scar on the right side of his chest, but she didn't linger there. They'd both had worse than this and probably would again. It was the nature of their jobs.

"Sometimes I hate Fury for splitting us up," he whispered, fingers tracing the bruises around her throat.

"You know he had to," she reminded. "Even if he didn't say it outright, he knows about us."

"Yeah," Clint agreed with a frown, eyes still on the bruises.

"Hey," she reached up and caught his hand, pulling it away from her neck and trapping it within her own. "He had to do it. The mission has to come first. If he hadn't split us up, sooner or later we would have to choose. What would you do? If it was my life or the mission?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't need to. He'd proven to her in a hundred ways already that he would choose her, always her.

"I know what I would choose," she confessed. Him, always him. "And thanks to Fury, we never have to make that choice. If we get a few bumps and bruises because of it, then it's worth it."

His brow furrowed slightly but then smoothed as he finally pulled his eyes away from the bruises and up to meet hers.

"Did you kill him?" he asked with a soft ferocity.

"Yes," she answered simply.

Clint nodded slightly, reaching with his free hand to brush across the split lip again.

"Good."

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his mouth and then turned, laying back against his chest. His arms came around her and he slid them both a bit deeper into the warm water. Natasha closed her eyes and let herself drift away.

* * *

 _I kind of loved this one. Idk, there was just something very intimate about it but it wasn't sexual. I loved showing this part of their relationship. The deep caring and affection and protectiveness. Idk. I just loved this one._

 _More tomorrow!_


	29. Bandaging Wounds

_Only a few more of these for last year's prompts!_

 _Prompt: Bandaging Wounds_

* * *

"You're an asshole," Phil accused.

Clint snorted, then grimaced in pain.

"Serves you right."

"Killer bedside manner you've got there, Phil," Clint replied dryly.

Phil clenched his jaw and didn't respond. Instead he focused more completely on the task before him. He put a steadying hand on Clint's shoulder, both as a comfort and to keep him from moving. Clint went quiet as well, laid out on his stomach on the cot with his arms crossed under his head. Phil carefully palpated the four deep bruises setting in across the agent's shoulders and back, each with an angry welt at the center. One of them deep enough that it had broken the skin.

He watched Clint's jaw tick as he drifted to close to the worst of the marks set just to the left of his spine. It was the one sluggishly bleeding. When Phil pressed a little more firmly, he felt a slight give in the rib beneath his fingers. Clint shifted his head, but didn't cry out.

"A couple of fractures," Phil deduced, as he carefully cleaned the wound and taped a bandage over it. Then he broke and shook out some ice packs from the first aid kit. He wrapped them in thin towels and placed them across he worst of the darkening bruising.

Clint rested his cheek on his crossed forearms so he could look at Phil.

"I'm not going to apologize."

"I don't expect you to," Phil assured. Because Clint never apologized for putting himself in harm's way. Phil had given up on that years ago.

"I'd do it again too," Clint went on.

"I know you would," Phil replied calmly. His voice must have been too level, because Clint's eyebrow arched incredulously.

"You're mad at me."

Phil closed the first aid kit with a snap and sighed, turning to fully meet Clint's eyes.

"Yes I am."

"Phil…" Clint shifted like he was going to try and sit up, but Phil put a hand on his shoulder again.

"Don't move. Let the ice do it's work."

"What the hell was I supposed to do?" Clint demanded.

Phil blew out a harsh breath.

"Nothing, Clint. You did exactly what I expected you to do."

"Then why are you mad at me?" Clint snapped.

"Because you don't have a self-preserving bone in your goddamned body!" Phil retorted.

Clint shook his head and pushed up from the cot, shoving away Phil's restraining hand and letting the ice packs slide off his back. He settled on the edge of the cot, boots pressed into the ground.

"I was wearing a vest," Clint pointed out firmly.

Phil scowled.

"I know that."

"So, what's the problem?" Clint challenged, frustration clear in his voice.

Phil blew out a slow breath and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and staring Clint in the eyes.

"Clint, the asset was wearing a vest too."

Clint stared back unflinchingly.

"The asset was a fifty-year-old scientist who'd never seen the wrong end of a nerf bullet, much less a real one. Could he have taken the hits? Yeah. He had a vest on. He'd have lived. But why put him through that if I can take the hits instead."

Phil stared at him, knowing he couldn't really argue. Clint had done the right thing. He had done what Phil would have done if he was close enough. But he couldn't help his anger. Clint was hurt _again_. Because he was Clint. Because he was selfless and reckless and would always take a hit to protect someone else from it.

And as much as Phil knew all of that. Clint being hurt tore at Phil's heart in a way nothing else could. And with flashbacks to Croatia burning a hole in his retinas, Phil wasn't ready to watch Clint take a bullet for someone else. Not ever again.

"This isn't that, Phil," Clint said suddenly, blue gray eyes sharp and knowing.

"I know," Phil allowed. "You're right, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. If you didn't worry about me, who would?"

Phil chuckled a little at that.

"Now would you lay back down and be still?"

"You gonna stop being a mother hen?"

"Not likely."

Clint barked a laugh and quirked his brow.

"Okay then. At least you're honest."

Clint stretched back out on his stomach and let Phil replace the ice packs. When he was settled, Phil rested a hand on his shoulder again.

"You're a selfless little shit, kid, and I'd never hold that against you. You just mean too much to me to take it lightly either."

Clint was quiet for moment, chin resting on his crossed forearms. Then he turned his head again, resting his cheek so he could see Phil properly once more.

"I know I give you a hard time…but you not taking this shit lightly? You're the only one that does that. The only one that would rather I just run away from the fire instead of towards it, you know?" The was something vulnerable and sad in the smile that turned up his lips then. "I'm always gonna run towards the fire, Phil. But I'd take you giving me shit about it over you _not_ any day."

It was a round about way of saying that he appreciated that Phil cared, but Phil got the point.

"In that case, kid, I'll never stop giving you shit," Phil promised with a teasing smirk, then more seriously, "or giving _a_ shit."

Clint grinned in response to the vow.

"Get some rest." Phil squeezed his shoulder and stood. He retrieved Clint's iPod from his bag and tossed it onto the pillow next to his head. By the time Phil got to the door and glanced back, Clint had put his headphones in, curled his body more tightly around the pillow and closed his eyes.

Phil couldn't help his fond smile as he quietly stepped out to call in the mission success.

* * *

 _Papa bear Phil is one of my favorite things :)_


	30. Shoulder to Cry On

_So I went a different direction with this one, as in I pulled in some OC characters that we've only barely met ;) But any of you that know my VPU, will know exactly what event this fic surrounds._

 _Prompt: Shoulder to Cry On_

* * *

Brit lifted his head from his hands when he felt a touch to his shoulder. He looked over at Kara who nodded towards the double doors that led deeper into the hospital. Brit turned his head and saw a doctor approaching them.

Kara stood and Brit followed. Around the small waiting room, the others all rose as well, crowding in together. The doctor started speaking and Brit narrowed his eyes, focusing intently on the woman's mouth, deciphering the words as she spoke them.

 _He's in critical condition, but stable. The surgery was successful in that we were able to stop the bleeding, repair and reinflate the lung that had been damaged and collapsed. He's on a ventilator for now, until his lung is strong enough to handle breathing on its own. He's in recovery, and you can see him but only one of you for now and only for a few minutes._

Brit looked up sharply, gaze darting around to see if anyone had volunteered to go first. But everyone, including Kara, was looking back at him.

' _Go.'_ Kara signed. _'Give him our love.'_

After that there was a blur of hallways and turns and then the doctor was guiding him behind a curtained off section of a room. Without any time to prepare himself, Brit was faced with the sight of Clint in the bed before him.

He was sure his breath stalled in his lungs, but still he forced himself to step closer.

Clint had always been small in stature, but he looked far younger and more vulnerable now than he ever had before. Even when he'd come to the carnival, all of ten years old, traumatized by abuse, and utterly silent, there'd still been a tangible strength in him. That was gone now. The hospital bed seemed to swallow him up, the tubes and wires creating a daunting tangle around him.

His eyes were closed, the lids dark and bruised, his skin a sickly gray rather than the usual golden tan.

"Clint?" Brit whispered uncertainly, stepping up to the side of the bed. There was a bulk of bandages over the right side of the teen's chest, a tube snaking out from the side of it.

Buck's recounting of the night's events replayed in Brit's mind as he slowly reached to wrap his fingers around Clint's.

" _I was walking back to my tent and heard shouting. By the time I got there, the other Barton kid and Duquesne were running off and the kid was on the ground with a goddamned knife in his chest."_

"You'll be okay, Clint," Brit promised softly. "It'll be okay."

But he knew the assurance was hollow. If it was true. If Barney had been part of this, it would never be okay. He squeezed Clint's limp fingers gently and clenched his jaw against the sudden stinging in his eyes.

He jumped when a hand touched his arm and turned sharply.

A nurse, beckoning him away.

His time was up.

He nodded at her and looked back at Clint.

"Fight, Clint," he whispered.

Then he let himself be led away.

The entire way back to the waiting room, all he could see was Clint in that bed, looking small and broken. The teenager who just this morning had been full of life, with laughter and jokes and a smile that lit up the world. His eyes were burning as the waiting room doors came into sight. A lump formed in his throat as he pushed through them.

His eyes sought Kara's immediately and she stood, all but running across the room to meet him. He stepped into her embrace with a choked sob, burying his face in her hair. Her arms tightened around his shoulders and he wrapped his arms around her waist. He felt a telling wetness against his chest where her face was pressed against his shirt.

Everything had changed.

Barney and Jacques had just taken the small world of Carson's Carnival and burned it down.

Brit knew that even if Clint recovered, they'd lost him. He would never be the same after this. The boy they'd known, the boy they'd grown to love as part of their patch-work family, he would fade away.

Brit tightened his arms around Kara and let his own tears start to fall.

* * *

 _idk why I went this direction, but it just felt right lol_


	31. Tucked In

_Last one for LAST year's prompts hahaha at long last!_

 _Prompt: Tucked In_

* * *

"When was the last time you slept?"

It took a moment for the words to filter into Clint's brain, but once they did he pulled his gaze up from the laptop and blinked blankly at Phil.

"What?" he asked, not bothering to pull the headphone speaker away from his left ear.

"Sleep. When was the last time you got some?" Phil asked, eyebrow arched.

Clint stared at him then glanced around at the coffee cup next to him and the crumbled, empty energy drink cans piled off to the side. He looked back at Phil.

"I'm fine."

"You need to sleep."

"What I _need_ to do, is find her."

Clint turned his attention back to the laptop, pressing the headphones to his ear and scanning for any sign of her on any frequency. Natasha's comm had gone offline seventy-two hours ago. He'd been searching for a sign from her ever since.

"Clint. I can take over. Go sleep."

"No."

The headphones were snatched abruptly out of his hand.

"What the hell!" he snapped, glaring up at Phil.

"You're dead on your feet."

"I can handle it."

"You're going to miss something," Phil accused. "You haven't taken a break since she went offline. Even if she sends up a signal, in your state, you might miss it."

Clint glared at him, then glared at the laptop. He drew in a slow breath and realized his hands were clenched into fists. He forced them to relax and looked back at the laptop.

"I'll take over. I'll keep looking," Phil promised. "Go."

Still, Clint hesitated. Every instinct he had was screaming that she was out there, that she was waiting for him.

"Clint," Phil's hand landed firmly on his shoulder. "When we find her, you need to be ready to move if she needs an extraction. You won't be if you don't get some sleep."

Clint knew he was right. But there was no way he could just go kick back and take a snooze while she was still missing.

"I didn't want to have to do this…"

It took a second too long for Clint to process Phil's muttered warning. He had only just turned his head in question when he felt the sharp sting of a needle in his bicep.

"What the hell?" Clint stood, shoving the offending needle away. Immediatley, the world wavered around him and he had to reach for the table to steady himself. "What the hell…"

"A sedative. It's mild, but in your state, it wouldn't take much to knock you out anyway."

"You son of a bitch…" Clint muttered, pressing a hand to his forehead when his vision started graying around the edges.

"I need you functional and sometimes you're just too goddamned stubborn," Phil explained, latching onto his arm and pulling him away from the table. Away from the table. Away from Natasha.

"Wait…"

"I'll keep looking. I promise," Phil pledged. "If I find her before you wake up, I'll hit you with a stimulant."

Clint wanted to keep arguing, but suddenly he found himself sitting on his cot. He felt himself tip sideways, body suddenly feeling too heavy. Phil caught his shoulder, guiding his descent until Clint had sprawled onto his back on the cot.

"Sleep," Phil instructed.

Clint distantly felt his boots be pulled off his feet then the light weight of a blanket being draped over him. He blinked heavily, eyes refusing to focus properly. He frowned, willing the encroaching gray to recede. Phil's hand rested against his sternum, a familiar, comforting weight.

"Stop fighting it, Clint."

Might as well ask him to lasso the moon. All Clint knew how to do was fight.

"Do you trust me?" Phil's voice ghosted around him.

Clint forced his eyes open one more time.

"Do you trust me, Clint?"

He did. More than anyone.

"Then sleep."

When Clint's eyes closed this time, he didn't try to force them open.

Clint waded his way through the clouded fog around his mind and fought his way back to consciousness. He blinked, impatiently watching the world take focus. He was in the safe house, on his bunk.

"Hey sleepy head."

Clint sat up so fast his head spun.

"Jesus…" He pressed his palm to his forehead and doubled, willing the world to stop spinning.

"Easy tiger," Natasha soothed, dropping down onto the cot next to him. "You've been down for the count for eighteen hours."

"You're here," he realized, blinking blearily at her. "Where were you?" he asked, confused.

"Got into a situation. Couldn't get a call out, but managed to get myself out of there eventually."

"I tried to find you."

"I know you did. Phil told me. He also said he had to sedate you after seventy-two hours. No more coffee for you, mister."

Clint peeled his palm away from his forehead and squinted at her properly.

She had a stitched cut in the edge of her hairline, but otherwise appeared no worse for wear.

"I'm fine," she assured. "Mostly worried you'd gone all Sleeping Beauty on me."

"What?" he wondered in confusion, rubbing at his eyes.

"Eighteen hours, Clint. Phil said the sedative should have worn off after four."

"Jesus…"

"Yeah," Natasha agreed. "You still look like shit though."

He snorted.

"Thanks."

Her answering grin chased away the last of the cobwebs.

"Come on, up you go. Phil is out on a food run and you need a shower."

"Phil's out, huh?" he wondered, letting her pull him to his feet. "Don't suppose you need a shower too?" he asked with a smirk.

Natasha laughed, pushing him towards the bathroom. He figured her lack of answer was answer enough. He rubbed the last of the sleep out of his eyes as he went into the bathroom and flipped the shower on. His back was still to the door when he heard it shut softly and the interior lock engage with a 'click'.

He couldn't quite help the goofy grin that followed.

* * *

 _So instead of locking myself into ANOTHER 31 prompts (really it's 62 because I post in two fandoms), I'm going to forgo this year's Whumptober and focus back on other stuff. Like Not So Ancient History, and the highschool AU I've got going on, and more of the one-shot series I have in the VPU, and some stuff in my other fandom that's been nagging my muse. Not to mention, I want to start legitimate work on an original novel. Oh and I'm a mom of 2 boys with a military spouse that's never home and I work part time...sooooo, life's crazy! haha but I love it! That, of course, doesn't mean I won't use the inspiration from this year's prompts in other ways ;)_

 _Thanks for sticking with me for the YEAR it took me to get all these posted!_


End file.
